(A/N: And the race to finish this fanfic before the HBP races on! I apologize in advance for any grammical errors that I'm making. Since I have little time, I've released by betas and am simple going to post the next chapter when I finish it. If any of you are strict about grammar and spelling, be warned. Also, since I'm sure at least one or two of you are going to be camping in front of Barnes and Nobles Friday night, I'll try to finish this fic by Thursday.)
"You're all fools!" Harry shouted over a congregation of Death Eater in a dark stone chamber. His underlings were spread out before him, their foreheads pressed to the cold floor, muttering apologies.
It was Voldemort.
He had never been so angry, or terrified, in his life. None of them sensed the latter, fortunately. There were no Legilimentists among them. The fact that he was aware of his own fear made him even more furious, and he struck a nearby Death Eater with the Cruciatus Curse.
"We were close!" he roared. "Yet close counts for nothing!"
"Alexander Gates..." murmured someone.
"ALEXANDER GATES MEANS NOTHING!" Voldemort shrieked, whirling and striking the speaker with a curse.
The man writhed, twisting on the stone floor, as his blood literally began to boil in his veins. His hand shot upward, he gasped, and a sound like gurgling water escaped his lips. He fell to the ground, motionless. No one dared to move.
"It's Harry Potter who is in the prophecy," hissed Voldemort, quietly, venomously. "I will tolerate no more distractions. Crucio!" Another man began to scream in pain, and Voldemort continued, his voice sounding very clear against the high-pitched shrieks. "I cannot understand the thoughts that run through your minds. IT IS HARRY POTTER WHO MUST DIE!" he exploded.
The room went still, and the lone Death Eater's screams died away as soon as Voldemort lifted the curse. Voldemort stood to his full height, and slowly walked past the groveling Death Eaters as if inspecting them. He came to a stop before Rodolphus, and, looking down at the wizard's trembling hands, immediately sensed his own phobia manifested into a Death Eater.
"Lord-" Rodolphus began, but was cut off when Voldemort dragged him to his feet and yanked his head back. Voldemort leaned forward, peering into the Death Eater's eyes.
"Let's see exactly what foolishness is going on inside of your minds," said Voldemort as he pried into Rodolphus' mind and picked through the memories.
Nothing enlightening, though he had not really expected anything to be. He only wanted to make sure his Death Eaters knew that he could flip through their minds just as easily as he was doing with Rodolphus.
He slowed his absorption of thoughts as he neared the present. The clarity became such that he could almost hear Rodolphus' internal battles and debates.
Then he came across a recent thought. A minute or two old.
"It's Riddle's own fault. He let the Potter boy get away. We fulfilled out obligations."
Rage and fear surged inside of him. Rage at the thoughts, and fear at the truth they contained.
THE POTTER BOY IS NOTHING! he shouted at himself.
Voldemort released Rodolphus and stepped away. Immediately he drew his wand, pointed it at the Death Eater's forehead, and incanted, "Avada Kedavra!" Rodolphus slumped to the ground, lifeless. Two dead Death Eaters. That was one more than he had planned.
From the corner of his eye, he was pleased to see that Bellatrix had not so much as flinched.
"Weak," Voldemort said in a breath. "But what can I expect from the same followers who had abandoned me at their first opportunity?"
No one dared to speak.
Becoming satisfied with their abject terror, Voldemort said, "A reevaluation is in order. There will be no more delays. My enemies were not idle as we wasted time on Harry Potter."
Voldemort paused suddenly, and a searing realization swept across his mind like a giant wave. All of his thoughts and emotions vanished, locked away in an instant.
"You're here, aren't you?" hissed Voldemort softly. "No longer protected, are you?"
Harry struggled, trying to end the dream, but could not. He felt tired, borderline unconscious.
Voldemort presented Harry with a psychological flash of amusement. "Weak too. It's a matter of time, Potter. You know that. I'm patient. I've spent years waiting for my chance, and I can wait one more. You won't want to be alive when I unleash what I have stored."
Abruptly, the hold released and Harry felt as though he was being physically thrown from Voldemort's mind. The dream went black, and then, quietly, it ended.
**
"Harry! Wake up!"
He woke to the blinding lights of the hospital wing, shocked from sleep by someone's incessant shaking of his shoulders. He opened his eyes to see the hazy outline of a snow-white beard, a pair of vibrant blue eyes.
His head throbbed painfully, and he was relieved when someone - he wasn't sure who - pressed a cool cloth to his forehead. Disoriented, he grabbed one of the arms that were grasping his shoulders and held onto it as though it was keeping him from falling.
Harry's dream with Voldemort was all too clear in his head, and he could see two points of red before his eyes. Like eyes.
"A nightmare," said a voice. Harry recognized it as Lupin's. "And a bad one, from the looks of it. By Merlin, he was screaming."
"Don't jump to conclusions yet, Remus," replied Dumbledore. Then, to Harry, "Have the dreams returned?"
Lupin removed the cloth from Harry's forehead and leaned down questioningly over the bed. Several times over the year, Harry thought of how old Lupin seemed. Even in the letters he sensed a sort of exhaustion in them, as though they had all been written after a very long duel. Now, looking at Lupin, Harry saw that he was not far from the mark. While wizards could live to be quite old - incredibly old, by muggle standards - Harry wondered whether Lupin would live to see a hundred. He could see it all in the sagging eyes, the graying hair.
"I was in his head again," Harry said. He was still remembering the dream. He had never read Voldemort's emotions and thoughts so easily. "He was angry and…and afraid, talking about how the Death Eaters had fouled up his plan. He killed two of them."
Lupin grimaced, but Dumbledore managed to keep his expression clear. "Tom never cared overly much for his followers. You were able to feel his emotions?"
"Wait," interrupted Lupin. "I thought Severus and you had solved this. There shouldn't be any dreams."
"Snape's gone," Harry said. He turned to Dumbledore. "He vanished from my mind after whatever I did to Kreacher." Remus stirred at the mention of the house-elf. "I think I pushed him from my head somehow."
Dumbledore frowned. "I suspected as much. I did not mention it before, but what you performed upon Kreacher was actually a form of Telekinesis."
"Impossible," said Lupin. "Telekinesis takes years of practice and training. And even then only the best wizards can perform it consistently."
"Other wizards aren't as…gifted as Harry in certain respects," Dumbledore said cautiously. "Regardless, it is clear that it was unintentional. He could've received no such training at Hogwarts."
Harry looked to Dumbledore, to Remus, and then back to Dumbledore. "What are you saying? What did I do?"
"In a spurt of mental energy, you, quite literally, attacked Kreacher's physical brain," said Dumbledore. "Only considerable amounts of emotional distress and trauma could possibly trigger such a reaction. What can you remember feeling when it occurred?"
Harry shifted in his bed. He recalled all too well what he was feeling. "I remember hating him. I remember wanting him- wanting him dead. Like with Bellatrix."
Lupin put his face in his hands. "You followed my model. A fool's model."
"That's not it at all," said Harry. "I just…I remembered Sirius, and then what he was doing to Hermione…I didn't think of you at all."
"Then it is now clear what happened," said Dumbledore after a pause. "There was so much telekinetic energy, and you were so inexperienced in its use, that you inadvertently purged the Occlumensia Anomaly from your mind."
"We'll have to restore it," said Harry instantly. "Voldemort can look into my head whenever he wants now."
"It's not as simple as that," continued Dumbledore. "The Occlumensia Anomaly is the most unresearched phenomena of the mind. While we know that the people who share it have a certain bond to begin with, we know nothing of its creation. Having more Occlumency lessons with Professor Snape may or may not restore the anomaly."
"Then what're we supposed to do in the meantime?" Lupin asked.
"I would first like to assess Harry's dream," said Dumbledore, turning to Harry. "Before we began delving into the mysteries of Telekinesis and the Occlumensia Anomaly, you mentioned you sensed Tom's emotions."
"It was strange," said Harry, still trying to hold onto the fragments of the dream. It was like trying to hold onto sand. "Voldemort didn't even notice me at first. I was able to read him without him sensing me. He was furious at the Death Eaters, but, more than that, he was terrified. That's why I think he lost his temper."
"Severus told me that he was reading similar emotions from the Dark Mark," said Dumbledore, nodding. "Tom's sensing his own mortality. For years he had thought himself invincible, and then the prophecy told him differently." He sighed. "Unfortunate."
"What do you mean?" asked Harry. "If Voldemort is afraid, that's a good thing, right?"
Dumbledore shook his head. "Not necessarily. With Tom, his own arrogance and anger was his greatest weakness. He would overextend himself and make rash decisions. His fear will now make him more cautious and calculating. We cannot expect him to make too many mistakes in the coming year, I'm afraid."
"Voldemort also said that he wasn't going to delay any further," added Harry. "And he said a reevaluation is in order."
Lupin and Dumbledore exchanged dark looks. "Then the real war is beginning," said Remus. "He won't be focusing on you any longer."
"What do you think he's planning?"
"I don't know," said Dumbledore. His eyes were gazing across the room. He seemed distracted. "With Tom Marvlo Riddle, no one will know until the very end."
"But we have clues," Lupin said. "Madam Bones ordered raids on several Death Eater manors since her replacement of Fudge, and Shacklebolt says they've turned up only vague but sinister references to it."
"Like what?"
Lupin looked to Dumbledore for confirmation, who nodded. "The central clue came off of a high-level Death Eater captured in one of the raids. When he was put under Veritaserum, he answered all of our questions about Voldemort's future plans in gibberish. Obviously a complex Confusion Charm. The Aurors attempted to break it, but Shacklebolt said they received only one coherent answer before he went completely mad."
"The response came in the form of a child's poem," continued Lupin. "He said:
Ring around the rosie,
A pocket full of posies,
Ashes, ashes,
We all fall down."
"We assume that the charm was so strong that it prevented him from giving any sort of direct answer," said Dumbledore. "So he recited a rhyme that, in some way, tells us what Tom is planning."
Harry recited the rhyme in his head, but could make no sense of it. "I don't get it. What's he saying?"
"It suggests a multitude of possibilities," Dumbledore said. "None of which tell us specifically what Tom is doing. All of the theories, however, share one common thread. They all involve massive amounts of deaths among wizards and muggles alike. Millions, even."
"What do you mean?" said Harry uneasily. He didn't see how one person - even someone as powerful as Voldemort - could possibly kill so many people. "He's not that strong yet, is he?"
Dumbledore's distracted gaze returned. He seemed extraordinarily uncomfortable, which was quite a feat for the venerable headmaster. The way he stroked his beard, the way the corners of his mouth moved, all spoke of agitation.
"The poem the Death Eater recited is actually a reference to the Black Plague," said Dumbledore at length. "The 'ring around the rosie' is a reference to the round, red rash that first appears on the unfortunate victim. The second line alludes to the habit of people stuffing their upper pockets full of flowers to mask the scent of the dead and dying in the streets. The ashes spoken of in the third line were the result of mass-burnings, where corpses were incinerated without burial. The last line's meaning is self-evident."
"You're saying that Voldemort is going to release the plague on England-"
"We're saying nothing of the sort," interjected Lupin. His eyes turned fleetingly towards Dumbledore - possibly in anger - and then returned to Harry. "The poem is ambiguous at best, and we all should keep in mind that they were the words of a man losing his mind. It is possible that he was meant to recite the poem in a double-feint. Besides, it is questionable as to how much of an effect the disease would have on today's world. We no longer live in the past, when the Black Plague wrecked havoc across Europe. There are quarantines and other such measures that could be taken against an outbreak."
"I agree with Remus," said Dumbledore, and, for a moment, Lupin looked at him in surprise. "It is plain that there is no clear meaning. However, I do believe that Tom is capable and willing to take another disease and modify it to make it immune to modern technology. The poem might merely be describing the desired effects Tom wishes it to have."
Lupin shook his head in disagreement. "There are those that question whether that is possible. The Department of Mysteries once released an annual report that declared that such magic is beyond the capabilities of any wizard."
"You underestimate Tom's power," said Dumbledore. "You have never seen him work to achieve a goal. You have never known him personally."
Harry began concentrating on the headmaster's words. Never before had he heard Dumbledore speaking of the kind of person Voldemort was in Hogwarts.
"More than anything else, he desired perfection," Dumbledore continued. "He could not merely be equal with his house brothers, he had to surpass them. Being in Slytherin as a half-blood, he had to. He had to be exceptional, or he was ignored. And, above all else, Tom hated being ignored. In Transfiguration, he was so far ahead of the rest of the class that I began tutoring him on the side. My colleagues at the time all told me similar stories of his massive potential. When Tom starts on a path, he always finishes it."
Harry repeated Dumbledore's last sentence in his head. The implications the headmaster had made with that simple statement were enormous.
Dumbledore's expression suddenly lightened, as though he had just remembered something. "Enough of this talk. We won't do Tom the favor of speaking of him constantly. If you're feeling well, you have some visitors waiting in the main infirmary hall."
"Albus!" said Lupin in a lowered, sharp voice. "He had just come back from a nightmare only twenty minutes ago-"
"I'm fine," said Harry quickly. "Used to them, I suppose. But have Ron and Hermione…"
"Miss Granger awoke the previous night," said Dumbledore. "However, Madam Pomfrey has been keeping her restricted to her bed, and not allowing any visitors. Her wounds need much care and treatment to heal, but, above all else, she needs time. As for Mr. Weasley, no progress has been made."
Little relief was gained by Dumbledore's news, and he could not help but feel a little more anxious. There was a chance that Ron might be lost forever, and Hermione-
Wait a minute.
"Wounds?" Harry could only remember one. The blurred flash of a dagger slashing at Hermione's neck, missing, but still managing to tear into her collarbone and shoulder.
"Mental injuries, Harry," Dumbledore said, his blue eyes locking onto Harry's emerald ones. A gesture of sincerity, Harry assumed. "As you know, Alex performed a sort of Persuasion Charm upon Miss Granger with his necklace in order to have her flee from you. The necklace, as it so excellently does, exploited her susceptibilities, twisted the truths in her mind, and manipulated her so that she would listen to no one but Alex. In the process, however, it damaged key areas of the brain. Namely, her abilities of analyzation and logical reasoning."
Harry's mouth went dry. "Forever?"
Dumbledore shook his head, and a massive weight slid off of Harry's shoulders. "Fortunately, no. Madam Pomfrey has applied the necessary remedies, and she should be well again within days. Indeed, a loss of those abilities would have hurt her renowned reputation around Hogwarts." He gave Harry a small, brittle smile.
"What about Ron?" said Harry anxiously. "You said there was no progress, but there's got to be something."
"We won't be able to tell until he wakes," Dumbledore said. "We can only hope for the best." He paused for a moment. "Would you like to greet your visitors?"
Absently, Harry nodded. His mind was still on Hermione and Ron, and on how they were and what could be happening. He kept trying to tell himself that things could have been worse. Kreacher's dagger could have dug an inch deeper, or Dren could have escaped from Hogwarts completely in Ron's body. These thoughts did little to console him. The same dreaded thought persistently resurfaced. They would have been fine if only they didn't know you…
"Harry, dear, how are you feeling?" asked Mrs. Weasley as she walked into the room. Lupin and Dumbledore had already gone.
Harry felt his heart sink into his stomach, and he began staring at the wall. He dared not meet her eyes. "I'm good," he said, managing to look into her eyes. Once. That was enough to see the exhaustion in her eyes…the worry. She had not been sleeping.
"Albus told me what happened," Mrs. Weasley said. She moved to sit at the foot of his bed. "Don't blame yourself. None of the fault lies with you…"
Harry wasn't sure how to respond to that. If he had not hid his and Hermione's relationship from Ron for so long, Gates would not have had any leverage over him. Ron would never have gone into one of his fits…
Instead of voicing his thoughts, Harry said, "How're the rest of the Weasley's doing?"
He silently cursed himself. The rest of the Weasley's…
"They're in the next room," said Mrs. Weasley. "Madam Pomfrey did not want us all to come in at once. But we all wanted you to know that, no matter what happens with Ron, you'll always be a part of our home."
It was becoming too much. Mrs. Weasley's words were having the opposite of their intended effect. Harry was feeling worse with every passing second. He should be the one comforting her, not the other way around.
"Mrs. Weasley…" he began, fumbling with words. "I…Ron…"
"Don't you dare begin to blame yourself," she said, her voice suddenly stern. She got to her feet and stood over him, her hands on her hips. "It's Alexander Gates' fault for being reckless and arrogant. It's Albus' fault for letting that Hit Wizard in the school." Her voice began to crack, but her expression lost none of its seriousness. "It's the ministry's fault for never telling us exactly what happened with our son. It's You-Know-Who's fault for starting this war. And it's my fault for not being more careful with him." Tears began forming around her eyes. "It is not your fault. Stop it right now. I couldn't bear to lose two sons."
Before Harry could even so much as speak, Mrs. Weasley wrapped him into a motherly hug, squeezing him so hard that the air was forced out of his lungs.
Two sons…
"Ron'll be all right," Harry managed to say. His chest was becoming tight, not so much physically from the hug, but from grief. "We've always gotten through it before."
"I hope so," she said, pulling away a bit. Harry could see tear streaks on her cheeks. "But I'm worried about you too, Harry. We all are. You-Know-Who has been trying to kill you since you were a baby. One day he might just-" She stopped in mid-sentence, wiping her eyes.
This was it, Harry realized. Mrs. Weasley had no idea what she was getting into. Helping him meant putting her entire family in danger. She was diving into a well without truly knowing how deep it was.
"Mrs. Weasley," Harry said quietly. It was time for him to release the secret that he had kept locked in his chest for the past year. "There's more to it than that."
"What do you mean?"
"I mean that there's a reason that Voldemort has been trying to kill me," said Harry, immediately feeling guilty over using The Name when he saw her flinch. "I never told Ron or Hermione about this. Only Professor Dumbledore and I know the full prophecy."
Mrs. Weasley, contrary to what Harry expected, sat close to him and looked into his eyes. "Prophecy? What do you mean Harry?"
At some point during his explanation, Harry expected a look of terror to cross Mrs. Weasley's face. Or, at the very least, he had expected her to move away from him. He would not have blamed her if she did.
Instead, Mrs. Weasley was shocked beyond words, and, as soon as he had finished, she grabbed him and pulled him into an embrace.
She was even sobbing. "I'm so sorry for you Harry."
"No, I had to tell you," said Harry, trying to disentangle himself but failing. "Now you'll understand why I can't be at the Burrow as much anymore-"
"Don't be absurd!" Mrs. Weasley nearly shouted. "To think that Albus had hid this from you for so long. From all of us! I'm going to have a talk with him, don't you worry."
Harry almost laughed.
Perhaps it was relief from not having seen her run off screaming, perhaps it was his burden's long overdue removal, or perhaps it was the fact that could just imagine seeing Mrs. Weasley confronting Dumbledore, armed only with a spatula, in a dark alleyway at midnight to have a 'talk,' but he was feeling much better than he had in weeks.
"Mr. Potter?" Madam Pomfrey bustled into the room, holding a clear vial, and glanced once over the room as though to ensure that it had remained as spotless as it had been when she had last left it. "It's time for your Sleeping Potion."
Mrs. Weasley gave Harry one last squeeze, and when she finally released he felt air rush back into his lungs.
"Don't tell anyone else," said Harry. "I want to talk to Hermione and Ron first-" He hesitated, realizing that Ron might not be there to talk to.
Mrs. Weasley smiled, or tried to. "Of course, dear. Now get some rest."
Taking Madam Pomfrey's vial, he quickly downed the bitter substance and closed his eyes, feeling a strange coolness sweep over him. He went to sleep not thinking of Voldemort, but of lazy summer nights at the Burrow. He could not remember ever sleeping so well.
**
"Harry, I believe I have some good news for you," said Dumbledore. It was the next day, and last night's rest had worked wonders on him. His headaches had all but gone, and he felt well enough to stand and meander around the room.
Not that there was much to see, however. The little marble counter in the corner which Madam Pomfrey used to measure doses was bare of all instruments. Beside it was a locked wooden cupboard that Harry assumed contained various medical supplies.
Indeed, there was little reason for Harry to leave his bed at all, the lone exception being the window. He had spent his morning sitting before the window, staring out across the Forbidden Forest, the canopies of the trees meshing together to form the impression of a wide lawn sweeping out from under the castle ramparts.
He wondered what was going on in the outside world. The newspapers were probably having a field day, he thought grimly. Not only that, but Voldemort's plans were running without interruption. The Order and ministry could make all the raids they wanted to, but he doubted that it would make any difference. There were always more wizards drawn to Voldemort's power to replace the captured Death Eaters, like flies to a light. The key was, of course, to put out the light.
And only he could do that.
Dumbledore's arrival provided a much needed distraction from his mostly brooding thoughts.
"What is it?" Harry asked, turning in a hurry to face the headmaster. "Is it about Hermione and Ron?"
"Yes, both of them," said Dumbledore. His robes, made from a midnight-blue material that almost shimmered in the light, seemed to illuminate as he stepped closer to Harry's position by the window. "Madam Pomfrey has deemed Miss Granger healthy enough to return to classes and return to a relatively normal routine, though she must come back to the infirmary for a checkup once a week for the next three weeks."
"And Ron? What's happening with Ron?"
"He's beginning to come around," said Dumbledore. "He will not be fully conscious for a day or two yet, but Madam Pomfrey has performed several tests on his mind and there are no signs of a foreign influence. However, we cannot know for sure until he wakes. He will be very lucky indeed if he comes away unscathed."
To Harry, the news could scarcely have been better. He shakily got to his feet, causing Dumbledore to look at him in surprise.
"I must say that your recovery has taken me aback," Dumbledore remarked. "It would take most wizards a week or more to stand after being subjected to such events as you were."
"I've had a lot of practice," said Harry with a grin. Then, "When will I be able to talk to Hermione?"
"Right now, if you are feeling well."
"Great," said Harry, wondering how much better the day could get. "Where is she?"
His blue eyes twinkling, Dumbledore nodded. "Before I go, I would like to give you a few words of advice, Harry. I don't think you've been entirely honest with your friends over the course of this year. I am not one to interfere with my students' affairs, but I suggest you keep no more secrets from them. You are not alone in this terrible world. I can't stress this enough. You believe that you are sparing them by not sharing the prophecy, but you are, in fact, only hurting them more."
Needing no response, Dumbledore turned and went through the door, leaving Harry to his thoughts.
It was foolish of him, he realized, to have hid everything. He had been trying to go through the entire year without surrendering a secret. He had kept the secret of the prophecy from Ron and Hermione in the hopes of protecting them. He had kept Gates' possession of his album a secret because he did not wish to gamble to lose everything. He had kept his relationship with Hermione a secret because he did not want Ron to feel excluded.
And, like Dumbledore had subtly hinted, secrets had ways of surfacing at the worst possible times.
Like when Gates took them, warped them, and used them against Hermione and Ron.
In the end, what had he caused? Hermione had been wounded severely. Ron might have lost his mind forever. Gates was turning into a literal monster...
Despite the Hit Wizard's cruel behavior, Harry pitied him. While he had removed Gates' worst memory, the deep emotional impact that it had on him did not disappear. It would never disappear. He felt guilty for cursing Gates with an unending existence as a twisted creature, but he did not regret it. He still hated the Hit Wizard with a smoldering passion.
But the pain and risk he had brought upon Ron and Hermione...that was unforgivable. He could have prevented everything in the space of a half hour.
"Merlin, I'm stupid!" he said aloud.
"I'm not sure if stupid is the right word," said Hermione. To Harry it was as if she appeared out of thin air. "Deceptive, maybe."
Harry looked up and saw her standing in front of the door, wearing her black school robes, and he could see a white bandage poking out from the neckline. Her face was carefully expressionless, and she gazed at Harry in an impersonal and distant way. Like he was a stranger.
"How much of what Gates said was true?" Her voice trembled as she spoke, though she gave no other indication of anxiety or nervousness.
Harry tried locking eyes with her, but failed. In them he only saw the reflective shine of the infirmary light. "There's a prophecy, but what he said about it isn't true."
Hermione closed her eyes, exhaled, then opened them again. Something akin to relief. "Do you remember when I asked you if you were hiding anything from me? Were you lying?"
Harry bowed his head. "Yes."
"I believed you," she said, her voice becoming steadily higher. "I thought that after six years I would know when you were lying. I was wrong."
DAMN OCCLUMENCY! Harry roared at himself.
Instead, rather calmly, he said, "No one knows me better than you, Hermione. You didn't have any reason to think I was lying. Hermione...I didn't want you to get involved with something that couldn't change, especially when knowing it could mean death."
"You thought you were doing me a favor?" Hermione's stone exterior began cracking, and it was like she was no longer speaking, but whispering. "You pushed me away, and I didn't even know it."
Dumbledore's words began hitting home. You believe that you are sparing them by not sharing the prophecy, but you are, in fact, only hurting them more.
"I'm sorry," said Harry, her tears making his shame grow more. "I shouldn't of, but I did." He moved towards her, his legs threatening to collapse underneath him with every step.
"I know you're sorry," Hermione said, some of her coldness returning. She stepped back. "I want to know what's going on. What's been scaring you so much that you won't tell anyone? What does the prophecy say and how do you know?"
"Dumbledore told me after I came back from the Department of Mysteries," Harry explained, and for the first time Hermione met his eyes. "He told me about a prophecy that he had heard during an interview with Professor Trelawney. To make a long story short, one of Voldemort's spies overheard, but didn't quite hear it in its entirety. That's why Voldemort tried to kill me as a baby."
Hermione's face was slowly turning white. "What did the prophecy say?"
"Are you sure you want to know?"
She nodded without hesitation.
Watching her expression carefully, Harry recited the words that he had managed to memorize the first time he heard them. First her jaw lowered, then her lips began trembling, and lastly tears began to moisten her cheeks. By the end she was hugging Harry with all her might, as though he might vanish if she let go.
While Harry was greatly comforted, his aching legs rebelled and nearly buckled under him. He stumbled backwards, carrying Hermione with him, before he grabbed and steadied himself on the chair by the window.
Hermione at last released him as he sat in the chair, though she did not move away. "I can't believe you never told me. You left me out- You left all of us out of your life. And this prophecy is forcing you to duel Voldemort? I don't- I can't see any other interpretation for it-" She looked pleadingly at him, as though expecting him to take it all back. "Dumbledore is going to do something, right? He can't just-"
"-Hermione, it's a prophecy. There's nothing he can do-"
"-But listen Harry!" Hermione said, speaking more and more quickly. "You'll never win. You can't win. You've all read about Voldemort, but you never- I studied him. I read everything I could about his life and his accomplishments, if you can call them that." She turned towards him in desperation. "In all of recorded history there has never been a wizard or witch so proficient with Unforgivables. He's used them so much that he doesn't even have to try anymore. You know what that means Harry? You know how frightening that is?"
"I don't have a choice," Harry said. "I have to fight him."
"See? You're going out of your way to fulfill it," said Hermione, and she began to pace as her logic began to run rampant. "You don't know if it's true! Divination is sketchy at best. For all we know, this could've been Professor Trelawney just trying to put on a convincing act in order to get a job. Prophecies don't always come true, Harry!"
Harry could have come up with a million replies to counter her argument, but instead he stared steadily at her, saying nothing.
"It's not true," Hermione said, shaking her head. "It can't be. You're only sixteen!"
"Dumbledore is convinced it's real," said Harry quietly. "Parts of it have already been fulfilled." He lifted the bangs of his hair to reveal his scar.
She opened her mouth, as if to speak, and then closed it again. The reality of the prophecy was finally beginning to sink in, and, judging from her expression, she was horrified. Like someone had just told her she swallowed poison during lunch.
After a long pause, Hermione said, "What're we going to do? If this means what I think it means, then you're going to need a lot of help-"
"I don't want any," Harry interjected. "I can't be getting anyone else involved. It's meant to be between me and Voldemort alone."
"You can't be alone!" Hermione retorted. "What is the Power-He-Knows-Not that the prophecy refers to? Why are there so many ambiguities?"
Suddenly, the door open, and in walked one of the most enormous people Harry had ever seen. She was grossly overweight, flesh bulging everywhere, and her robes just barely managed to stretch over her body. She wore suspenders like horse straps around her thighs and waist, which seemed to be enchanted to help support her bulk and keep her balanced in a fashion that her legs alone could not. Her beady eyes were deeply inset, like her body, running out of places to store the excess fat, ended up fattening the area around her eyes. A string of pearls surrounded her neck, looking ridiculously flimsy in comparison to the size of her neck.
"Oh, why, you two," she boomed, the fat under her jaw rippling as she spoke. She pointed towards Harry with one fat, stubby finger "You haven't happened to have seen my dear nephew Alex, have you?"
Harry, still somewhat shocked by the intrusion, stammered, "Uhhhhh-"
Not waiting for an answer, she stepped into the room and looked around herself. She leaned to the side, looking around the bedside, and Harry knew at once that her suspenders were indeed magical. There was no way she could have performed such a maneuver on her own.
She yawned an unnecessarily long yawn, covering her mouth with a jeweled hand as she did so. Harry only managed to see a glint of a ring, as fat covered most of the band.
"Albus?" she called loudly, turning and going back to the door. "Albus? What have you done with my nephew?"
"Ah, Madam Bassel," Dumbledore said as he walked into the room. He was smiling but not smiling. "It is truly a pleasure to have you in this castle."
"Yes," she said indifferently. "But I fear I must keep my visit to your-" She glanced once more over the room. "-castle short." She sniffed. "I do, however, admire your dedication to your institution, despite its recent troubles."
Dumbledore's expression showed no acknowledgement of her sweetened barb. "I do not deserve your admiration. Do you wish to see your nephew?"
"If it's not too much trouble, Albus," Madam Bassel said. She had a certain aristocratic bore in her voice that managed to irritate Harry. "I haven't seen my nephew in many, many years. I was most distressed when I heard of his unfortunate fate. Absolutely dreadful, to be turned into a Dementor."
Harry doubted if he had heard a more emotionless voice in his entire life. There wasn't a hint of sincerity, sarcasm, or anxiety in her tone. Total apathy. From the corner of his eye he looked at Hermione, and saw that she was having a similar reaction towards the woman.
"I assure you that it was not intentional."
Madam Bassel nodded, her chin moving like jelly as she did so. "I trust your judgment, Albus." She glanced towards Harry then back to Dumbledore. "Is this the young man who did it?"
Harry was continually amazed by her indifference. "Yes, I did it."
"Mmmmmm," she said, turning towards him and raising an eyebrow as though she found him to be rude. First sign that she was a real person. "Alex was never exceptionally cultured. I have no doubt that he was the one at fault. Albus' story of what happened sounds most genuine."
"Harry," Dumbledore began, appraising him carefully. "Would you like to come along?"
Harry did not answer immediately. He looked towards his nightstand, where his album still sat untouched. He had not opened it yet, despite having received it yesterday. Something in his head told him that Gates was just outside the door, like he always was, waiting for him to leave. It did not seem possible that the Hit Wizard had been incapacitated, Dementor or no.
He felt the need to see Gates one last time to ensure that the Hit Wizard was truly gone. Until then, he doubted that he could ever work up the willpower to pry open the album and see the inevitable damage done to it.
"Yes," said Harry. Then, in a lower voice to Hermione, he added, "This is something I want to do alone."
Hermione looked at him, then nodded. He could still see the dried tracks of her tears on her cheeks.
A twinkle returned to Dumbledore's eye.
"Very good, then," said Madam Bassel, oblivious to the exchange between the three other people in the room with her. "Shall we proceed?"
Dumbledore held the door open for Madam Bassel, and she wobbled through, her hips barely squeezing through the entrance. The headmaster gestured to Harry, and, with one swift glance at Hermione, he left.
"Albus, does Hogwarts serve dinner this early?" Madam Bassel asked, walking beside the headmaster as they exited the infirmary and continued down the hall.
"I'm afraid not," Dumbledore replied. "But I'm sure arrangements could be made. The house elves will be pleased to have the extra work."
"Wonderful," she boomed, her eyes lighting up. Another emotion. "I haven't eaten since noon, and a bit of lamb sounds rather delicious right now."
They went down a circular stairwell to the dungeons, and Madam Bassel fell behind Dumbledore as her bulk prevented them from walking side by side. When the reached the bottom, they passed under an archway and came to a wide, stone corridor. Torches began to light as they walked by, triggered by some ancient enchantment.
Water dripped from the moss tangles that lined the ceiling, their roots working with time to dig into the grout between the rocks. One bare area, which had apparently been wiped clean by someone in a vain effort to restore the architecture, was pockmarked with wear the vegetation had dug into the stone. If left alone, the entire corridor might be collapsed within a century.
"Interesting," commented Madam Bassel. Harry had expected something more insulting, but, evidently, she had nothing more to say.
"We're now in what's called the Lower Dungeons," Dumbledore said. "These tunnels have been here since the Founders' time. Few people realize how truly old Hogwarts is."
Recognizing the name, Harry took a closer look at the walls and saw that they were indeed in the same area where Snape had taken them to clean his vast storeroom of jars and flasks. Broken pieces of rusted iron shackles lay strewn on the floor, and the floor was stained with dark areas that appeared to be the residue of spilled liquid. It was easy to see why the Lower Dungeons were rumored to be inhabited by vampires and other such monsters.
Not rumors any more, Harry thought. Now there's a real monster...locked away in one of the cells.
"It's a pity you could not do better to accommodate my nephew," said Madam Bassel idly. She did not seem to mind her surroundings in the least. "These dungeons look most uncomfortable."
"It's merely a short term residence," said Dumbledore. "Until I can find a more secure location for Alex, I will have to keep him down here. The enchantments in each cell are the only ones strong enough to hold him should he revive."
Madam Bassel nodded. "Completely understandable. One should never be too careful when dealing with uncouth beasts."
Heavy, steel doors with small slits for windows began to line both sides of the hall. Prison cells. An eerie silence fell over them as they walked past the doors, as though they were waiting for one to creak open and reveal a forgotten prisoner. Of course, nothing of the sort happened, and the only sound in the corridor was the crackling of burning torches. Harry thought that it was strange, however, that the doors seemed to be in perfect working order. There was no sign of rust or decay.
As though reading his mind, Dumbledore said, "This castle tends to take care of itself, especially near its foundation. When it senses danger, it takes the appropriate action. Look around you, at the polished steel handles and bars. Hogwarts is preparing for war."
Madam Bassel chortled softly. "That's a lovely observation, Albus."
Dumbledore did not respond.
Harry, who was trying to steer clear of conversation, was put under pressure when Madam Bassel slowed her pace with the intent of walking along with him. She gazed sideways at him and cleared her throat, though it came out more like a grunt. Her weight swayed back and forth with every step she took.
"I trust you hold no grudge against my branch of the family for Alex's behavior?" asked Madam Bassel. "I assure you that he was not raised that way. Ever since he was dropped on our doorstep he was nothing but trouble. He had too many foolish ideas about muggles and mudbloods. I'm afraid even our most extreme actions did little for him."
Harry said nothing, though the woman was beginning to remind him more and more of Aunt Petunia.
"As Alex was banished from House Gates, and there is no other heir apparent, his will has been declared void and my family has inherited Gates manor," she continued. Harry was forced to move over as she moved closer to him. "If you feel you need to take legal action to receive the appropriate compensation for the wrongs done to you by my nephew, I assure you that that is unnecessary. I would be more than willing to give you a share of the inheritance."
"I don't want any of Gates' money," Harry said coldly.
"Then I'm glad that you hold no enmity against my family," said Madam Bassel, oblivious to the tone of Harry's voice. "I apologize on behalf of our family."
Harry grunted, not wanting anything from the enormous and callous woman next to him. Her apology was hollow, holding nothing but words and air.
"I could not help but overhear that Alex had lost his manor," Dumbledore said. "May I ask how?"
Madam Bassel waved her pudgy hand dismissively. "Certainly you may ask, Albus. The Hall of Portraits declared him a traitor and revoked his status as a coming-Vladimir. He was to be informed this coming week. Of course, that's irrelevant now."
"Why did they take it away?"
"Evidently they found his actions disgraceful," she said. She seemed to pay little attention to her own words. "More than that, he allowed intruders to enter Gates Manor. I'm sure they've been frustrated for many years. No one has been in contact with them since dear Yegor died. I only told them of all this when I learned of my nephew's unfortunate accident."
She wasted no time, Harry thought.
"Could you tell me how the wards could've been broken to allow the intruders to enter?" Dumbledore asked. "I'm afraid I know little of the wars that surround Gates Manor."
"The wards are rooted in the blood," said Madam Bassel, yawning. "If the blood is ensnared, so are the wards. When the manor was broken into during Yegor's time, it was because You-Know-Who managed to deactivate the wards through the Dark Mark on his arm. Any such bond could easily jeopardize the wards."
Dumbledore glanced meaningfully at Harry, and he caught the message. For the same reason how Voldemort was able to use Gates to spy on Harry, he was also able to dismantle the manor's defenses. The concentration of Dark Marks in the necklace tampered with his body and mind.
"Ah, here we are," said Dumbledore at last. They came to a particularly heavy door, and the headmaster drew a rusty key and set it into the lock. It clicked, the handle loosened, and he pushed it open. Light poured into the darkness within.
The cell might have belonged to a hermit. Its lone feature was a single chair, and, on it, was the outline of a larger-than-normal man. He leaned forward slightly, as though there was a chain around his neck. Dumbledore moved forward and set a torch on the far wall, bringing more light into the otherwise shrouded room.
"He's quite unconscious, then?" said Madam Bassel. Harry thought it was an odd question to ask.
Dumbledore nodded. "Yes. Do you wish to have his wand?" He drew a long, ebony wand and offered it to her. The sight of the wand brought a flood of memories into Harry's mind.
"What ever for?" she asked, puzzled. Without accepting it, she turned away and stepped forward.
Without hesitation, Madam Bassel grabbed Gates' hand and began to try to pry the fingers off of a piece of silver in his hand. Unfortunately for her, Gates' grip was still like steel, and her best efforts did not budge his fingers. When she gave up, the silver object was still being held securely in the Hit wizard's hand.
It was then when Harry realized what it was. The silver bracelet that had formerly belonged to Gates' mother.
"Is he supposed to be so strong?" asked Madam Bassel, rubbing her sore hands. "I don't believe that is normal, Albus."
"Yes it is," answered Dumbledore. His face appeared calm and relaxed, but his eyes betrayed an underlying disgust at the woman. "He'll be like granite until the transformation is complete. Hard and unmovable, but just as inactive."
Madam Bassel frowned. "And how long does that take?"
"Varies. It can take anywhere from a few years to a century."
"That won't do at all," Madam Bassel said. She kneeled by his hand and began peering at it with her beady eyes, looking for weaknesses. Gates remained as motionless as ever in his hardwood chair, mentally shut off from the outside world. His eyes held a blank, placid look that one would associate with those at peace, but Harry knew that, in Gates' case, it could not be further from the true. Behind the facade, the Hit Wizard was living out his worst memory...over and over...
At length she stood up and set one jeweled, pudgy hand on Gates' lean one. Posing next to each other as they were then, Harry was amazed that the two were related. Where Gates was strong and thin, Madam Bassel was soft and fat, making her look like his physical antithesis.
With another burst of strength, Madam Bassel pulled at the bracelet in Gates' hand, her entire body laboring, the suspenders humming from the additional strain. Quite by accident, the bracelet slipped out, and she stumbled backwards and would have fell had it not been for the suspenders. She clutched in her fat hand the shining silver bracelet.
Harry was unnerved. He felt as though he had just witnessed someone robbing a grave.
"Good," said Madam Bassel as she recovered from her near-fall. She turned to Dumbledore. "My business is done. Can we set out for an early dinner? I do hope your elves have lamb available..."
Harry, however, ignored her. His eyes were still locked on the figure in the crimson robes, the man whose hand still rigidly clutched at nothing but air. He was staring at a decaying husk of which the mind and soul had long since fled from. Slowly, his mind began to absorb and accept, but he found himself only a little comforted by the confirmation.
There were bigger monsters in the world, he realized. Voldemort was just beginning his war, and he would prove to be more of a threat than Gates ever was. While the Hit Wizard lived by honor, Voldemort had none, and, indeed, had none of the faint traces of morality that Gates, if nothing else, possessed.
"-and gravy should go well with that," continued Madam Bassel. Then, as an afterthought, "I trust you have mint jelly, Albus?"
"Worry not, Madam. You will not want for food in Hogwarts."
**
When he returned to the infirmary, Madam Pomfrey checked him once over and reluctantly conceded that he was healthy enough to leave.
"But do any strenuous excercise for the next few weeks, at least," she warned. "And don't you dare even think about going on that broom of yours, either. Flying is hazardous enough without physical complications."
"Thanks," Harry said.
"Don't thank me, thank your headmaster," said Madam Pomfrey. She tutted as she examined his arm. "If it was up to me, you wouldn't be leaving until tomorrow at the earliest."
Remembering that he had left his wand and album in by his bedside, he excused himself and went back into the side wing. Seeing that Hermione had gone - undoubtedly at the nurse's request - he walked towards his nightstand. He hesitated when he saw the album, unsure what to do. It slowly dawned on Harry that Gates had left a mark on his mind that would make him forever associate his album with the destroyed Hit Wizard, a last, posthumous stroke. Deciding that the infirmary was hardly the place to open it, he slipped it into his robe, grabbed his wand, and left.
Harry went through the corridors to the Gryffindor common room on auto-pilot. The album burned in his pocket, and he was simultaneously eager and apprehensive about looking through the pictures. What did he have left? How much had Gates destroyed? His worst fears told him that, when he opened it, he would only see ash.
Harry climbed through the portrait hole and, not wanting to be noticed, gave the chattering Gryffindors around the common room fireplace a wide berth and headed for the stairs to the boy's dormitories. Just as he made the first turn of the circular stairway, he was intercepted by Hermione, who was staring at him with a worried expression on her face.
"Madam Pomfrey told me that she was going to release you today," she said. "I thought I'd meet with you so we could talk. Harry? You seem...off."
Harry only managed to stutter, "Uhhhhhhhh, actually...no."
"What's wrong?" Hermione's eyes went wide. "Is it about the prophecy? Did that woman have something to do-"
"No," Harry said, shaking his head. "Nothing like that. It's, ummm, more personal." He looked behind him anxiously, looking for other students. "Would you mind-?" He pointed up the steps towards the dormitory door.
"Oh, right!" She moved out of his way and followed him through the door. Together they went to a nearby table that was flanked by two seats and sat. An awkward silence ensued.
Hermione stared at him, taken aback by his strange mood. "What is it Harry?"
"Look, the prophecy wasn't the only thing I was hiding from you this year," Harry confessed, rubbing the back of his neck with his hand. "There was a lot going on that you and Ron didn't know about. It was stupid of me to have hidden it, but there's nothing I can do about that now..."
Harry sighed, and then told her the story of how Gates had taken his family photo album earlier in the year, and how the Hit Wizard had used to to blackmail him into silence. He told her how Gates had burned pictures whenever Harry had done something to displease him, and how Harry had fell into submission because of his fear of losing the entire collection. How it had occurred throughout the year, and Harry having done nothing about it.
By the end, Hermione was shaking her head in abject shock. "He did that? That's- that's- monstrous, horrible, terrible!" She stared at him with a questioning look in her eyes. "Why couldn't you just have told us? Told me? You think that we would've let that monster do that to you?"
"I didn't want to risk losing them, Hermione," Harry said. "Telling anyone - anyone - would have endangered my album. I- I'm- I didn't know what to do."
Hermione's eyes softened. "Did you look back into it yet?"
"No," said Harry, looking once more at the battered book that was on the table between them. "I couldn't. I suppose I didn't really believe Gates was gone until I saw him."
They both fell silent, Hermione obviously waiting for him to reach over and open it. When he did, however, Hermione clasped her hand over his and whispered, "Do you feel comfortable with me here? I could go back-"
"No," Harry said quickly. "Don't leave. I want you to be here."
Gently he lifted the album and set it before him, taking a moment to appreciate the poorly bound spine that Hagrid had created five years ago. It felt lighter, he realized with a sudden surge of dread. A lot lighter. Hesitating no longer, he flipped the cover open to see the first page.
Harry let out a slow, steady breath. It was a picture of his father riding his broom over a Quidditch field, the wind whipping over his robes, a near perfect image of Harry as he flew over the pitch at Hogwarts.
He turned the page to see James playing with Harry as a baby, Harry tugging at his fingers, James grinning and laughing. Familiar and untainted.
Again, he turned the page, this time to see another picture of James, this time in front of a home at where Harry guessed to be Godric's Hollow. Judging from the informality of the picture, and James' raised eyebrow as he turned around to look at the picture-taker, Harry assumed that his mother had probably taken it as a sort of surprise.
He turned again and again, pausing at each page, the bit of alarm gnawing in his chest slowly growing. Picture of James with Harry on his lap. Picture of James at Hogwarts. Where was Lily?
Harry came to the last page, and, his heart frozen with shock, he looked up at Hermione. Almost robotically, he closed the album, sat back, ran his hands through his hair and stared at the ceiling.
"Harry?"
"She's gone," he said quietly. "She's gone."
Of all the pictures in his album, not one of his mother remained.
(A/N: I was debating whether to throw Gates' aunt in, as she wasn't truly necessary, but I think she goes a long way as to exactly what kind of people Gates' relatives were. Besides, it adds a bit of finality to the whole Gates subplot.
The biggest issue in this chapter was the scene with Hermione where I was quite literally deleting paragraphs after writing them, after deciding that they were too mushy/dramatic/etc. I really, REALLY tried to avoid cliche'ng it too much, but, frankly, there are only so many ways Harry can reveal the prophecy.
And for those of you who are ready to dispute the interpretation of the 'Ring around the Rosie' poem, I'm already familiar with the reasons why that poem can/cannot be about the Black Plague. But as this is a fiction story...
Next Chapter: The very last one, and, as such, it's going to be a chapter of lasts. Harry's going to encounter Snape for the last time, Gryffindor is going to get it's last load of points, Harry's going to get one last surprise...etc. Oh, and I've explained precisely what the Maw in the title was intended to mean!