Disclaimer: I am not J. K. Rowling. If I were Jo, I'd be rich, British and a woman.
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Chapter 6: Mr. and Mrs. Pot Ranger
The sensation of apparation was still somewhat foreign to Harry, causing a lurch in his stomach as he landed awkwardly on his feet. Looking around at the dreary houses which dotted the muggle neighborhood surrounding him, he felt a strange sense of disgust, as though he had just taken a whiff of an extremely powerful stench. Instinctively, he knew that he didn't belong here.
Staring down at his reflection in a nearby brook, he realized just how right his instincts were. The face of Lord Voldemort snarled back at him, his normally cold, calculating eyes burning with fury. His head snapped up suddenly, making Harry slightly dizzy. Eyes that were not his own narrowed and focused on a small brick building at the end of a winding pathway not far from where he stood. A dilapidated chimney towered over the house, although the summer heat did not require its use.
Ignoring the muggles bustling around him, Voldemort withdrew his wand and tapped a rustic sign in front of the door that bore the name The Pages of Mages. Next to it was a nearly identical one which read The Book Nook. Once his wand touched the first sign, it illuminated, turning various shades of green and red.
The shop door swung open violently. "Septimus!" Voldemort's voice bellowed. He scanned the book shelves around him quickly, taking little time to linger on each one. "Where the bloody hell are you?" His gaze darted to a long, crooked aisle towards the back of the voluminous book store. A wooden stepladder held a shadowy figure aloft, his face hidden by a row of thick tomes which nearly filled the top shelf.
"You should know better than to hide from me, Septimus," he heard his own voice declare angrily. Rather than walk the short distance to where the man was perched, he used a nonverbal summoning charm to bring the ladder to him.
As the object holding him literally flew across the room, Harry got a good look at 'Septimus' for the first time. A mop of unruly silvery-white hair complimented the worn and rugged face of a man who looked to be in his late seventies or early eighties. His scratchy wisp of a beard coupled with his torn and ragged robes reinforced the image of a wizard who was completely unconcerned with his appearance.
Bored black eyes met Voldemort's as the dark wizard brought the stepladder to a halt in front of him. "Oh, it's you," Septimus remarked contemptuously, apparently unaffected by the Dark Lord's display of power. "I was hoping it might be a paying customer."
Voldemort's teeth ground together. "Do not mock me, Septimus. Not now, not ever again." With a flick of his wand, he sent the ladder flying back across the room. Unperturbed, Septimus nimbly jumped from the highest rung as it departed, turning to face Voldemort fully without the slightest trace of fear on his face. "You lied to me."
The older man appeared to consider this. "It's possible. I lie often and sometimes only out of habit. However, unless you tell me what I supposedly lied about…"
Seething slowly, Voldemort glowered at him. "'The Covenant of the Founders'," he growled.
Septimus chuckled without humor in his voice. "Oh, that," he replied casually. "Terribly boring read, wasn't it? There's no sex in it at all and what little violence it contains is very poorly described. If it weren't for its much vaunted connection to Lord Slytherin…"
"There is no connection to Lord Slytherin," Voldemort erupted angrily. "The book is not Slytherin's horcrux, nor was it ever. It was just more of your lies."
"The world is full of lies, Tom Marvolo. I only collect them," Septimus explained with a wry grin as he again began to busy himself straightening the books along his shelves. "You know, if my memory serves me correctly, I tried to persuade you not to seek 'The Covenant of the Founders'. I believe I typified it as 'the worst medieval rubbish you'll ever have the misfortune to read' and said you would be wasting your time if you pursued it." Septimus raised his silver and gray eyebrows, although his eyes did not meet Voldemort's. "I had no way of knowing whether or not the book was a horcrux, but I strongly suspected that it was not. Slytherin may have been a great many things, but he was not a bibliophile."
"You speak as if you knew him," Voldemort's sneering voice came back, "yet you do not. You could not possibly hope to understand the greatness he achieved, nor the magnificence and purity of Slytherin's vision."
Disappearing for a moment behind a large redwood desk with an old-fashioned muggle cash register gathering dust on one end, Septimus returned with an ancient-looking leather bound book which bore an illustration on the front of a dragon terrifying a young woman with long blonde hair. "Fairy tales," the older man explained. "What you know of Slytherin is no different than these children's stories. Kernels of important information disguised in fanciful myths. Truths edited so that small minds can understand them."
Voldemort shook with rage. "You test my patience."
Septimus smirked. "You have no patience, Tom Marvolo, for which you should be eternally thankful. It is your impatient nature that has allowed you to become so powerful in such a short span of time." The robed man sat down on a nearby wooden chair and gave Voldemort an appraising look. "I wouldn't be too disappointed in how things went at the Department of Magical Relics if I were you. You caused a very impressive amount of death and destruction. The Ministry was badly shaken by it. How long have you waited to make your first move against them? A year? Two?"
"Too long," the soft, hissing voice of Tom Marvolo Riddle admitted. Wandlessly, he conjured a flame in the palm of his hand and then snuffed it out with his fingers.
The older man smiled widely. "So what are you so glum about? Your name is on everyone's lips now, including those imbeciles in Feckless Fox's government. You know, Tom Marvolo, I…"
Voldemort blasted a hole through a nearby bookshelf with his wand. "You will not call me by that name," he instructed authoritatively.
"Ah yes," Septimus retorted with a slight grimace. "I keep forgetting that you changed your name to that ridiculous French anagram you came up with while you were at school." He scratched his beard thoughtfully. "Tell me, where is the wisdom in abandoning one's own given name for a nom-de-guerre, only to turn around and forbid everyone from saying that name as well?"
Voldemort must have turned away from Septimus, as his focus shifted to a shelf of books dedicated to the training and proper punishments of house elves. "I cannot bear my muggle father's name. I won't."
"You know, Tom Marvolo…" Septimus waited a breath for a violent reaction. When Voldemort did nothing, he continued. "There is a reason that I constantly remind you of your middle name. Marvolo Gaunt was a great man and the Gaunts were a proud and respected family of wizards. You are the last of their line. I can understand your distaste for your muggle name, but that is no reason to completely turn your back on your heritage."
"If Marvolo Gaunt was such a great wizard, why couldn't he control my mother?" Voldemort demanded in a hiss. "Why couldn't he stop her from degrading herself by cavorting around with muggle filth?"
"As my dear, departed Uncle Ursus used to say, you can't put everyone under the Imperius Curse," Septimus said with a sympathetic glint in his eye. "No matter how powerful you become, some things are going to be beyond your control. In my experience, disrespectful daughters who run off to marry muggles would be one of those things." A dark shadow crossed his face and he shifted uncomfortably in his chair.
Voldemort seemed equally eager to change the subject. "One of my Death Eaters disobeyed my orders in the middle of the attack. I should have killed him instantly, but I hesitated. I only used the Cruciatus Curse on him."
Septimus shot Voldemort an inquisitive look and leaned forward conspiratorially as the sound of the door opening and closing behind them indicated that another customer had entered the shop. "You are uncertain whether to lead them by fear, or attempt to inspire trust and respect in your followers. Am I correct?" Voldemort nodded slightly. "The answer is simple. Strike fear into their hearts and you will have their respect. As for trust, my old Uncle Ursus had a saying there as well. 'Trust no one but yourself'." Septimus stood and stretched. "Now if our business is concluded, I have a large order of books on centaurs to sort through…"
"Do you really have secret information about Lord Slytherin? Information that the rest of the wizarding world doesn't know about?" Voldemort asked curiously.
Septimus drummed his fingers on the table impatiently. "My young friend, that is only the beginning of what I can teach you about the true history of the wizarding world. However, my debt to the Knights of Walpurgis is now paid."
"This would put me in your debt," Voldemort insisted. "I must know what you know."
"A wizard's debt is a serious matter, Tom Marvolo," Septimus said, his eyes widening and his expression grave. "Are you certain about this?"
"You think I am not serious?" Voldemort asked in an offended tone. "Very well. We'll perform an Unbreakable Vow. Teach me everything you know about Lord Slytherin and I will return the favor by giving you whatever you ask, with the exception of my own life." Septimus seemed baffled at Voldemort's enthusiasm, but nodded his head in agreement anyway. "Excellent. I'll arrange for one of my Death Eaters to be the Bonder…"
"Excuse me," a young woman with long dark hair interrupted. "Mr. Prince, is Dr. Zhivago in stock? I was told last week that you might have it in by now."
Septimus plastered a polite smile on his face. For a man who seemed to be cozy with dark wizards, he was obviously used to dealing with muggles. "Of course, my dear. It's in the back." He then returned his attention fully to Voldemort. "So sorry, Tom Marvolo. One of the hazards of the trade, I'm afraid. Would you mind watching the store for a moment?"
*
The dream was interrupted by a persistent sharp pain coming from Harry's forehead. At first he assumed it to be his scar, burning in the wake of yet another unwanted excursion into Lord Voldemort's mind. Upon opening his eyes, however, he discovered a familiar snowy white owl standing on his pillow, pecking at his eyebrows with her beak. "Hedwig!" Harry exclaimed in annoyance. "Stop that. I'm up, I'm up!" he exclaimed, scrambling to sit up in his bed and reaching for his glasses in an effort to put some space between himself and his pet bird. "What are you so worked up about anyway? I let you out last night to hunt and…"
Hedwig lifted her leg slightly to show Harry that something had been wrapped around it. "A letter? And a package? Where did you get all of this?" Hedwig beat her wings in muted frustration. "Right. You can't tell me." Harry sighed as he opened the letter, hoping that it wasn't bad news about Ron and silently asking himself why Voldemort couldn't have possessed the much more useful power of being able to communicate with owls.
The mystery of who had sent the letter was solved in a moment by the instantly recognizable handwriting of Molly Weasley. The small feeling of dread that had overtaken him when he saw the letter had now become a large sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach. With trepidation he began to read it.
'Harry dear,' it began sweetly. 'How are you? We've been so worried about you after everything that you've been through this past week. I know Bill told us that you wanted your privacy after that terrible incident with the living fire spell, but Ginny and I both felt you might need a little encouragement from the people who care about you. I know I speak for all of us when I say that you'll always be welcome at the Burrow. After all, you're as much a Weasley as if you were my own flesh and blood.
'I'm afraid that there hasn't been any change in Ronald's condition. I know how worried you must have been these last few days and I'm sorry that I don't have better news. If we learn anything new, I'll certainly keep you informed. You're probably tired of hearing this already, but we certainly don't blame you for what happened. Severus Snape is a horrible excuse for a human being and, if you ask me, Azkaban is too good for him after all the evil that he's done. He's the one to blame, Harry, not you.
'I don't know what the three of you have been up to since you left Hogwarts, but I'll bet it has something to do with You-Know-Who and whatever it was that you and Dumbledore were doing before he died.' Here the writing became somewhat splotchy and Harry had to squint and hold the paper close to his face to read around what he assumed were Mrs. Weasley's tears. 'He was so proud of you, Harry. He would be honored to know that you're working on something that the two of you started together.
'Still, I'm sure you're going to get very lonely wherever you are, with only Hermione Granger to keep you company. If you ever want to stay at the Burrow, we would be thrilled to have you. Ginny also sends her best wishes and hopes that you'll see each other soon.
'With much love,
Molly Weasley
'P.S. Enclosed are two invitations to Bill and Fleur's wedding. It's been moved back to two weeks from Saturday (the planning has been a nightmare!). Pass one on to Hermione, if you would, dear. Also, I've sent a care package with Hedwig filled with as much good food as I could sneak away from the men of the house. I'm sure that cruel house elf isn't feeding you properly.'
She was right about that, although it likely had more to do with Kreacher's inexperience in preparing meals for teenagers who had grown up dining on muggle cuisine rather than any real malicious intent on the house elf's part. His half-hearted sympathy for Kreacher aside, however, the thought of eating home cooking from the Burrow was enough to make Harry's mouth water. He quickly reached for the small package wrapped around Hedwig's leg. His owl seemed to have her own ideas about the little bundle bound to her talon and refused to let Harry take it from her. "Give it here," he instructed, but Hedwig merely hooted at him haughtily.
"Oh, alright," Harry grumbled. "Accio owl treats," he said in a low voice, pointing his wand at the hallway outside the master bedroom at Grimmauld Place. After a few moments of watching Hedwig shift awkwardly from leg to leg as if to demonstrate her impatience, Harry retrieved the small bag of Owl Chow and threw a handful of the pungent-smelling pellets to Hedwig. As she gobbled them down hungrily, Harry removed the package from her leg.
"Heavier than it looks, isn't it?" Harry asked Hedwig rhetorically as he began to unwrap the small bundle. His owl ignored him, choosing instead to clean the feathers on the inside of her wings. "It's a picnic basket. She must have used a shrinking charm so that it could be carried by owl," Harry deduced aloud. He placed the miniature basket in his lap and tapped it with his wand. "Finite incantatem."
As though he had placed an engorgement charm on it, the basket grew to fifty times its original size, filling up half of Harry's bed and pinning his legs to the mattress. Wincing painfully and trying his best to ignore the feeling that his legs were being crushed, he reached for his wand and pointed it at Molly Weasley's care package. Hedwig shot him an exasperated look, as if to say 'I told you so'. "Wingardium leviosa," Harry incanted weakly, watching with relief as the ridiculously overburdened basket hovered in the air above his legs. Once he was sure that it would no longer fall on him or anything that could break easily when it landed, he set it down on the floor, causing a loud thumping noise that echoed throughout the house.
Slowly, Harry rose from his bed, donned his glasses and examined the basket of food. Inside were various assortments of meats, fruits and cheeses, along with seventeen different kinds of dessert. 'There's enough food in here to feed two people for a year,' Harry thought to himself. 'Of course, if Ron were here, it would be a different story.'
Harry let out a long sigh. He had not realized how much he would miss having his best mate around until he spent a day here at Grimmauld without him. A feeling of gloom had settled over the old house and Harry found himself often longing for one of Ron's well-timed wisecracks to make the place seem cheerful again. Nobody could lighten the mood in a tense situation like Ron Weasley. Of course, he could also create tense situations on his own, particularly where Hermione was concerned.
A large grin spread over Harry's face. If there was one bright spot in all of this, it was his newly strengthened friendship with Hermione. He hadn't had much time to spend alone with her since fourth year, when he and Ron had been on the outs during the Triwizard Tournament. Harry had been a bit worried that he and Hermione might not have much to say to each other without Ron around to make things light and fun.
Contrary to what Molly Weasley thought, however, Hermione made for excellent company. She was sensitive and kind, thoughtful and clever and had a kind of bone dry wit that contrasted sharply with Ginny's more observational sense of humor. She was also an excellent listener who was good at helping Harry sort out his troubles, handling both horcrux-related problems and personal ones with relative ease.
Without truly realizing he was doing it, Harry had walked down the hallway to stand in front of Hermione's room. Cracking her door open slightly, he saw that she was still sleeping, her bushy brown hair bunched up on one side of the pillow while her right hand still clutched the book she had been reading as she had fallen asleep. Harry couldn't help but smile at the sight.
Deciding that she needed her rest, Harry quietly closed the door and made his way to the master's study. The previous night had been a long one, filled with a seemingly endless amount of research and more than a few promising leads that only led them nowhere. What might have been a completely wasted night spent searching for information about horcruxes was actually rather enjoyable, thanks to an enlightening conversation he'd had with Hermione.
"You know, Harry," she had said, in a voice that let him know she was almost as tired of searching through the Black family library as he was, "if you really do get rid of this house after the war, you should consider selling off some of this book collection as well. I'm sure there are plenty of dimwitted aspiring dark wizards out there who would love to get their hands on this made up rubbish about learning how to conjure deadly plagues and turning your enemies into giant muskrats." She snorted contemptuously. "Assuming any of them survive the war, of course."
"Well, I reckon there's an incentive to let a few escape, then," Harry replied, his tone disinterested. "I'll need customers for my evil book sale."
"Ergh!" Hermione exclaimed in irritation. "This is so tedious! If I have to read one more bigot bragging about how he killed a family of innocent muggles or brutally tortured a muggleborn wizard, I'm going to tear my hair out!"
"You probably shouldn't bother with this one then," Harry replied, tossing the book he had been reading across the room. "Unless you want to read all the gory details about this bloke's collection of severed limbs."
Out of curiosity or habitual neatness or both, Hermione picked up the volume, glanced at the cover briefly and then placed it back in its proper place on the bookshelf. "Well, at least now I know I can skip Tantalus Gruelbroth's Famous Maims in Wizarding History." She stifled a yawn. "Maybe we should call it a night. I know you were hoping to find something about Hufflepuff's cup…"
"…and you were hoping we'd see some activity from Ravenclaw's quill," Harry finished for her, glancing at a purple feather and a piece of parchment, both of which sat motionless on the large oak desk next to Regulus Black's research. Hermione had confiscated this particular quill pen from a seventh year named Judy Flemingworth last year and soon discovered that it had been charmed to perfectly mimic the movements of Ravenclaw's quill, so that the two feathers moved in sync when anyone wrote with the older pen. It was quite an impressive bit of magic; too bad the girl had only been using it to copy Cho Chang's homework and notes without her knowledge and most likely to cheat on exams as well. The clever Ravenclaw wouldn't have been caught had she not found out that Cho was also using the quill to write love notes to Judy's boyfriend, Marcus Thames. The ensuing catfight had been a particularly ugly one, although Ron claimed to have enjoyed breaking it up.
In a typical stroke of brilliance, Hermione had come up with a way to track the quill, just in case one of the Death Eaters made off with it (which, of course, they had). When Harry had hissed at Snape in parseltongue at the Quibbler, he hadn't been insulting the back-stabbing pillock, he had been talking to the horcrux, telling it to 'Write me'. Once it did, they could perform a variation on the locator charm and trace the horcrux back to wherever it was being kept. There had been no activity from the quill so far, however, which was more than a little bit frustrating.
"There's always tomorrow, I suppose," Hermione noted with a sigh. "Another day of searching through 'evil books' and waiting for a feather to move."
Harry sent a tired smile her way. "I never thought I'd see you so unhappy about spending the day in a library, looking through books."
"In their own way, books are like people, Harry," Hermione explained as she stood and returned the books she had been looking through to the shelves along the wall. "A good one can teach you something new, lift your spirits and give you hope for a better future. A great one can even make you fall in love." Her eyes avoided his own as she spoke and Harry couldn't help but wonder why. "But it's best not to waste too much of your time on studying the bad ones. They'll only bring you down to their level."
"That's good advice," Harry told her with admiration in his voice. "So I guess that means we can skive off looking through these books tomorrow, then?" he asked teasingly.
"Unfortunately, no," Hermione answered in a disappointed tone. "Other than the quill, they're all we have to go on." She looked at the stacks of books with a sense of horror that Harry would have expected from Ron, but never from Hermione. "And to think I wanted to open a bookstore after I graduated from Hogwarts."
"Really?" Harry asked her with raised eyebrows. "A bookstore?"
"Don't act so surprised," Hermione replied with a small smile. "I'm sure it's exactly the sort of thing you imagined me doing." After she made sure that everything was just as they had found it, she began to walk out of the Master's study.
"I guess I expected you'd do something more with your life," Harry said earnestly as he followed after her. She frowned deeply at his words. Hoping that he hadn't offended her, he continued with a look of determination on his face. "Not that starting a bookstore wouldn't be worthwhile, it's just that I imagined you off crusading against the unfair treatment of house elves or something like that."
"Like I did with S.P.E.W., you mean?" Hermione asked, a hint of bitterness creeping into her voice. "You can see how well that worked out."
Harry took a long look at the melancholy expression on Hermione's face and knew he had to say something to make it disappear. "It wasn't so bad. Dobby certainly took to the idea of house elves working for wages. It may not have been directly because of S.P.E.W., but…change takes time, Hermione. Your heart was in the right place."
"It always is, isn't it?" Hermione answered him sadly. "Just never at the right time." Before Harry could ask her what she meant by that, she turned the tables on him. "What about you, Harry? Are you still planning on becoming an Auror after this is all over?" She smiled at him mischievously, although her eyes still had a distant look to them. "Or are you and Ginny going to become husband-and-wife professional Quidditch players? You certainly have the talent for it."
Harry shot her a puzzled look. "You don't really think that Ginny and I are going to get married, do you?" He shook his head dismissively. "We only dated for two weeks, Hermione. We've already been apart for longer than that."
Hermione let out a small, incredulous laugh. "But you fancied her all throughout last year, didn't you? Ever since you invited her to come to Hogsmeade with us, near the beginning of first term." Harry was uncomfortable with the idea that Hermione had noticed this. "And she's certainly fancied you for a long time."
"Yeah," Harry said unenthusiastically. In fact, Ginny had fancied him continuously for the last six years, starting at the tender age of ten. Now that he thought about it, he decided it was just a little bit creepy.
"Not that her feelings for you haven't grown and changed over time, of course," Hermione amended quickly. Harry frowned. Had her feelings changed? She had certainly never mentioned it if they had. The two of them had never really discussed how they felt about each other. In fact, they hadn't talked very much at all, strongly preferring snogging over getting to know one another. It had seemed like a brilliant idea at the time, but looking back on it now, Harry wasn't so sure that he had done the right thing for either of them by pursuing a purely physical relationship with Ginny.
"Harry," Hermione began as she tilted her head to one side and bit down gently on her lower lip, a sure sign that whatever question she was about to ask was an important one, "how serious are you about Ginny?"
"Well…" OK, time to think. This was a test. From the way Hermione was staring at him, it was a very important one. But what kind of test was it? What was the right answer? Her eyes were boring straight into his. Could she be using legilimency on him? No, Hermione wouldn't do that; not without telling him. Now she was glaring at him impatiently. Oh, right. She was probably expecting him to say something. "Er… I guess we'd be dating now if it weren't for the horcruxes and Voldemort. That's something, isn't it?"
Hermione didn't seem at all satisfied with that answer. "I suppose what I'm trying to ask you is… do you love her?"
This question took Harry completely by surprise and he couldn't help but feel a little bit angry with Hermione for asking him something so personal. Still, as the wheels in his mind turned slowly, he felt compelled to give her some kind of an answer. "I…I like her a lot. She's pretty and she can be very funny and we both like Quidditch and…I don't know. I don't know, alright! I don't even know how I'm supposed to know whether I'm in love or not."
"I think you just know," Hermione said softly. Her eyes were no longer watching Harry, but seemed to be staring at something very far away. "You're going along, minding your own business and there's this moment of clarity, this sudden revelation. You're in love. What causes you to realize it doesn't have to be funny or important or even anything the other person will remember. It just happens." She breathed a sigh and turned once again to look at Harry. "That's the way love works, I think."
"Really?" Harry asked in disbelief, suddenly indignant that Hermione was such an expert on the subject of love. "Was that how it was with you and Ron?"
Hermione shook her head slowly. "No, Harry. With Ron it wasn't like that at all."
Harry retreated as if he had been stung. His tone softened noticeably. "Oh. I'm sorry, I shouldn't have…I mean, it's none of my business, anyway." As true as that statement was, Harry's curiosity was gnawing away at him. How did things really stand between his two best friends? "Hermione, are you in love with Ron?"
"No," she answered in a whisper. "I wish it was that simple, but it's not." As Harry struggled for something to say, Hermione backed away from him, running into the door to her bedroom as she did so. "I'm exhausted, Harry. I…I'll see you in the morning, all right?"
Harry sat alone in the master's study, replaying the conversation in his mind as though it were a memory in a pensieve. A book on defensive magic was open in his lap, turned to a section detailing different types of goblin armor. He couldn't seem to focus on the research, however, and instead kept thinking about what Hermione had asked him last night.
Was he in love with Ginny? He still wasn't sure. Did it matter if he wasn't? After all, he was young and would have plenty of time to fall in love, with Ginny or maybe even with someone else, after Voldemort was beaten and the war was over. He shouldn't be worrying about love at a time like this, yet he couldn't seem to stop himself from doing so. It was something that mattered to him, even if it wasn't more important than finding the horcruxes or defeating Lord Voldemort.
Harry rested his forehead in his hands in frustration. He was never going to get any work done this way. Deciding to concentrate only on the defensive properties of goblin shields for the moment, Harry's eyes blearily turned once again to the book in front of him, as he tried to make sense of what the author had written about specialized plating techniques.
And then all hell broke loose.
The first thing that alerted Harry to the fact that something strange was going on was the sound of an inkpot smashing against the large desk sitting near the doorway. That was followed in quick succession by parchment being strewn about the room haphazardly and an entire shelf of books toppling to the floor. Harry soon noticed a slender purple quill making violent slashing motions in the air and generally wreaking havoc as it did so.
Feeling a bit silly, Harry stood up and, using his finely honed seeker reflexes, snatched for the quill as it flew through the air… only to release a growl of frustration as it darted away from him quickly, stabbing his palm in the process. Luckily it only pierced the bandages wrapped around his hand, but if it had gone only a quarter of an inch deeper, he would have received a rather nasty flesh wound for his troubles. Harry cursed his own stupidity. "You're not thinking like a wizard," he said aloud. "Accio quill!"
The violently trembling purple quill was drawn like a magnet to Harry's wand. As it came within inches of his face, he grabbed the feather with his left hand, forced the tip into the remains of the spilled ink and held it down with great effort. It soon began to write out messages like 'RELEASE ME' and 'I AM LORD VOLDEMORT' as Harry incanted the modified locator charm Hermione had come up with to give them the precise location of the horcrux. Once he determined how many kilometers separated the two quills and in what direction the Ravenclaw artifact was being held, he wrote the information down on a scrap piece of parchment.
A few moments later, Hermione walked down the hall, yawning and stretching lazily. When she took in the sight of the master's study in complete disarray, she stared at Harry in shock, her eyes as wide as saucers. "Harry, what happened?" she asked in horror.
"Nothing much, really," Harry deadpanned. "The quill went haywire and destroyed half the room, I traced the location of the horcrux to a place in Knockturn Alley and Mrs. Weasley sent us a basket of food and these invitations to Bill and Fleur's wedding." He handed one to a flabbergasted Hermione. "Oh, and I had another dream as Voldemort."
Once Hermione stopped gaping at him, she turned around sharply and marched back to her room to get dressed. "That settles it," she declared. "I'm never sleeping in again."
*
"And you're sure he said 'Slytherin's horcrux'?" Hermione asked Harry with a puzzled frown on her face. "Couldn't he have been talking about Slytherin's locket?"
Harry considered it for a moment, then shook his head. "I don't think so. Voldemort was sure it was that book about the Founders of Hogwarts; the one he broke into the Ministry to steal."
Harry and Hermione sat at a corner table in the tavern half of the Od's Blood Inn and Tavern. It was a small, squat stone building nestled in what appeared to be the dodgiest section of Knockturn Alley. Hermione rated it as only slightly more appealing than your average pig sty and Harry was inclined to agree, although he couldn't help chuckling at her upturned nose.
It didn't take the two of them long to discover that the Death Eater they suspected of stealing the quill was staying here for the night. After asking around a bit and making sure that a few galleons made their way into the right hands, they had found Aloysius Moorefield sitting at the bar with his cloak pulled over his face, downing multiple glasses of Ogden's Firewhiskey in succession. Much to Harry's displeasure, they couldn't do anything to him until they found out where he was keeping Ravenclaw's quill. So Harry and Hermione sat and watched the incompetent sot, huddled close together under Harry's invisibility cloak, as Moorefield consumed more alcohol in one sitting than either of them had previously thought possible. There was little to do except talk to each other, which at the moment suited both of them just fine.
"But it doesn't make sense," Hermione countered emphatically. "If Slytherin had made a horcrux and it was still in existence…"
"Salazar Slytherin would still be alive," Harry finished for her. Hermione appeared to be mulling something over in her mind. "Or at least he would have been, forty years ago. Do you think that's possible?"
"It doesn't seem very likely," Hermione answered cryptically, "but anything's possible. Anyway, I don't think that's what we should be worrying over right now. I'm much more concerned about the fact that Voldemort's inside your mind again."
Sometimes Hermione fretted too much over things that didn't worry Harry at all. This wasn't one of those times. An anxious frown formed on Harry's brow. "It is odd, isn't it? Why would he re-establish the connection between us after all this time, just to show me old memories of what he was doing in the 1950s?"
"Maybe Voldemort knows that you and Dumbledore were exploring his life history through the pensieve last year. He might be sending you false or modified memories now just to confuse things in your mind." Hermione leaned in to Harry, making him very aware of just how close they were to each other under the cloak. "Are you familiar with the story of the Trojan horse?" Harry indicated that he was with a slight nod. "Showing you these memories might be a clever distraction; a way for Voldemort to get inside your mind without you realizing what he's doing."
Hermione grabbed Harry's hand supportively. "This could be very dangerous, Harry. You know things now that you didn't back in fifth year, things that Voldemort can't find out. He could learn Trelawney's prophecy in its entirety or see that we've been searching for the horcruxes." Worry shone in her eyes. "Do you still want me to teach you occlumency?"
Harry nodded quickly. "I reckon that would probably be a good idea."
Hermione grinned happily, clearly pleased that Harry had such faith in her abilities. "Then we'll start tonight, before you go to sleep. You should practice clearing your mind before then, though."
"Right," Harry agreed. Hermione's happiness must have been infectious, as Harry was grinning like an idiot at her. "I'll see if I can work on that."
"Hey!" an angry voice called out from across the room, jarring the two of them out of their stupor. "You two lovebirds there, under the invisibility cloak!" The voice belonged to a large man who had been wiping down tables with a filthy-looking dishrag. Harry and Hermione both looked up in shock. "Yeah, you. You gonna order somethin' or are you just gonna take up one of my tables all day?"
For a moment, Harry wondered if Hermione had forgotten to perform the silencing charm and thought that the overly large bartender with scars running down the length of both arms and an eye patch over one eye must have overheard them talking. He should have known better than to doubt Hermione, however. When he examined the man more closely (a task not recommended for the faint of heart, as he had more hair on his back than on his head and a completely rotten set of teeth) he saw that his left eye was not covered with a patch, but with a magical eye that reminded him a bit of Alastor Moody's. He could likely see through the cloak as easily as if it were, well, invisible.
"Er, sure," Harry answered him awkwardly after Hermione took down the silencing charm from around them with a quickly spoken 'finite incantatem'. "I'll have a butterbeer."
"Just a glass of pumpkin juice, thanks," Hermione said as the burly bartender wrote down their orders on a nearby napkin.
"Butterbeer and pumpkin juice," the large man muttered mockingly. "This place is bloody well turning into Madam Puddifoot's."
Remembering his one excursion into the romantic little Hogsmeade tea shop during his fifth year on a date with Cho Chang, Harry scowled. Hermione, on the other hand, looked somewhat embarrassed. As the barkeep slowly walked away, he realized why. "I guess it would be silly for us to sit here under the invisibility cloak, acting as though no one could see us."
"I suppose so," Hermione replied with a nervous laugh. Wrapping his arm over Hermione's shoulder, Harry removed his father's old cloak from around her body and placed it between them. Hermione scooted over slightly, giving him more room than he really needed.
"Too bad Ron's not here," Harry noted sadly. "He probably would have ordered something stronger than a butterbeer." Hermione only nodded and glanced down shyly at the table. "And the bartender wouldn't have thought we…er, necessarily believed that we…"
"That we're together," Hermione finished. "Romantically. That's what you mean, isn't it?"
"Well, yeah," Harry answered, his cheeks flushing slightly. "Not that I care what some pub crawler thinks about the two of us, mind you. It's just a little bit awkward." As the surly man with the magical eye slammed their drinks down on the table, Harry's mind wandered. Before last night, he would have described himself as only mildly curious about Hermione Granger's love life. He had long expected her to start a 'more than friends' relationship with Ron and they had talked a bit about her first boyfriend, Bulgarian Quidditch star Viktor Krum, during fourth and fifth years, but that was the extent of it. Even putting 'dating' in the same sentence as 'Hermione' had seemed absurd. But now…
Now he couldn't help but wonder. Things weren't working out between Hermione and Ron, as both of his friends seemed unhappy in that relationship. Also, Hermione had told him that she'd fallen in love with someone; someone who wasn't Ron. A strong sense of determination filled him. If that someone was who Hermione wanted to be with, Harry would do everything that he could to make sure that this guy knew what a great girl he was missing out on. Of course, he would have to figure out who the bloke was first.
As Harry's mind began its slow return back to Earth, he noticed that Hermione was speaking to him. Unfortunately, he had absolutely no idea what she was talking about. "So I was thinking that you could go as my date," she said with anxious resolve.
"Go…go as your date?" Harry stammered in reply, trying to guess at what she could have possibly said while he wasn't listening that would have brought up the subject of the two of them dating.
Hermione looked doubtful. "I know you probably wanted to go with Ginny, but she'll already be at the Burrow and the only reason they even send out these silly invitations is so they know who's coming ahead of time and can plan the seating and meals accordingly and if you come with me as my date instead of telling them you're going to be there yourself it'll be harder for the press to find out and you know what a media circus it could become if…"
"Enough, Hermione," Harry interrupted with a laugh, while inwardly breathing a sigh of relief. She had only been talking about their plans to attend Bill and Fleur's wedding. "You've convinced me. I'll be your date for the wedding."
Hermione blushed as she realized how enthusiastic she must have sounded. "Well, we're both going, aren't we? And it's not as though I already had a date lined up. You were the logical choice."
Harry scratched his chin in thought. Now would be a good time to start fishing around for the identity of this chap that Hermione fancied. "I don't know about that, Hermione. After all, there's always…" Movement from across the room made his eyes dart to the bar. "Moorefield."
"Really, Harry," Hermione replied with a small laugh, "I'm hardly going to take a Death Eater as my date to Bill and Fleur's wedding, even if he does have Ravenclaw's quill. For one thing, they would probably have to close the open bar…"
"He's moving," Harry informed her seriously. "Well, staggering anyway," he added as he watched the Death Eater stumble across the room. "Come on."
Harry grabbed his invisibility cloak and the two of them dashed toward the side door that Moorefield was clumsily making his way through. When the duo attempted to follow the inebriated dark wizard, however, they were stopped in their tracks by the same barkeep who had seen through the invisibility cloak. "Trying to leave without paying for your drinks, are you?" he demanded with a growl.
"N-no," Harry answered a little nervously. "No, we were going to pay, I swear. We were just in a hurry." The man did not look impressed by his excuse. "So, erm, how much do I owe you?"
"Twelve galleons," the man informed Harry gruffly as he stuck his hand out to take the money.
"For a butterbeer and pumpkin juice?" Harry asked in disbelief. "That's highway robbery!"
"That's life in Knockturn Alley, now that the war's heated up," he snarled, his magical eye spinning wildly in place. "And if you don't pay me in the next ten seconds, the price just went up to fifteen galleons."
Harry dug in his pockets with his teeth clenched. "Fine," he said as he forcefully placed the necessary coins in the man's outstretched hand. "Let's get out of here," he said to Hermione.
Hermione reached for the door knob, only to have her hand grabbed by the scarred, beefy mitt of the man who had just taken their money. "Sorry, miss. The only people who can go through that door are paying customers of the Od's Blood Inn." He smiled at them fiendishly. "And I think I would have remembered the two of you checking in."
Having only barely held her tongue as the two of them were overcharged for their drinks, Hermione was now openly fuming. "We're not planning to stay here! We just want to…visit someone," she finished weakly.
As the man with the mad eye looked at them skeptically, Harry chimed in, "It's true, sir. You can check your registry. His name's Aloysius Moorefield and…"
"I don't care if his name is Rufus Scrimgeour. You're not getting through that door until I see some coin." His finger poked Harry repeatedly in the chest for emphasis.
"Alright," Harry said reluctantly, in spite of a look from Hermione that told him she'd rather argue the point. "We'd like to reserve one room, please."
The shady bartender snorted. "One room, eh? No wonder you were in such a hurry." Harry grimaced and Hermione looked flustered as the two of them followed the man to a large desk, on top of which sat a very lengthy guest registry. "Does that mean you'll only be looking for a single bed as well?"
"Yes," Harry answered. When Hermione shot him a look of embarrassment, he shrugged. One bed was probably cheaper than two and this was already costing him an arm and a leg. "Is there a way that we could only rent the room for part of the night?" he asked hopefully.
"Sorry, Romeo," the large bald man replied with amusement. "You pay for the room, you get it for the whole night. How long you use it is up to you." He began to write something in the registry in a peculiar longhand scrawl. "What name should I put it under?"
"Potter," Harry answered without thinking. "Granger," Hermione threw out in an attempt to cut him off before he could do so.
"Smith it is then," the man replied with a grunt. "Eighty galleons for the night."
"Eighty," Hermione exclaimed in outrage. A cautioning look from Harry made her fall silent, however, and Harry paid the man without further comment.
"You're in Room 234," the barkeep told them as he handed Harry a rusty old key and slammed the register closed. He then shot Hermione a parting leer. "Enjoy."
As they entered the Od's Blood Inn, Hermione was muttering angrily under her breath. "The nerve of that man, overcharging us just because he knew that…and thinking that we were about to…"
"Let it go, Hermione," Harry advised gently. "Come on, let's get under the cloak and see if we can pick up Moorefield's…" The loud, unpleasant sound of someone retching drew their attention to a cloaked man standing over a potted plant. It was Moorefield, who didn't seem to be very good at holding his liquor. "…trail."
"He's not very discreet, is he?" Hermione asked in a whisper as Harry threw the cloak over the both of them and hoped that that irritating git with the magical eye was nowhere around.
As Moorefield took the lift up to his room, Harry and Hermione followed him closely (although not too closely, considering how he smelled) until he reached the outside of his door. Fumbling in his pockets, the Death Eater eventually pulled out both a polished brass key and a bright blue feather. "That's Ravenclaw's quill!" Hermione exclaimed in a stage whisper. Harry reached out through the cloak to grab the horcrux. "Quick, before he can…"
But it was too late. As Moorefield opened the door to his room, the quill flew from his hand and flitted about the room aimlessly. The two of them crept into the room behind him as quickly as they could. Pointing his wand at the horcrux, Harry began "Accio Ravenclaw's qui…"
"Accio thingy," Moorefield slurred and the quill responded instantly. Once he had the horcrux in his hand, he deposited it in a long gray box which bore the emblem of an extended red hand on its side. He then collapsed on his bed sideways, incapable of further effort.
"'Accio thingy'?" Harry asked incredulously. "That actually works?"
"Harry," Hermione said, her voice sounding a bit numb to his ears, "that's a Reach For Something Strongbox." She pointed at the metallic gray container sitting at the end of Moorefield's bed.
"So?" Harry asked a bit callously. "Let's just take it and get out of here. One more horcrux down…"
"It won't do us any good to steal it," Hermione explained in a whisper. "Only the person who puts an item in a Reach For Something Strongbox can take it out. If anyone else tries, the results can be rather…painful."
Harry gulped. "How painful, exactly?"
Hermione looked chagrined. "Each box is different. One of the cheaper ones might just chop a few fingers off. But I doubt a Death Eater would have anything less than a box that takes off your whole hand." An exasperated frown formed on her face. "I told Fred and George that these things were too dangerous, especially in wartime…"
"Wait a minute," Harry interrupted her confusedly. "What do Fred and George have to do with this?"
Hermione sighed. "The Reach For Something Strongbox is a Weasley's Wizard Wheezes product, Harry. Fred and George invented it."
The next chapter is "Footing the Bill". Since this chapter is much, much longer than I anticipated, I'll probably split it into several parts. No teaser this time, but here's a spoiler: Bill and Fleur get married.
ITL