Shadow Walks
My shadow's the only one that walks beside me
--Green Day, "Boulevard of Broken Dreams"
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Chapter Six:
Welcome to the fall-out. Welcome to resistance.
--Switchfoot, "Dare You to Move"
Harry sat in a conference room a few floors above Dolohov's dead body. Neville was slouched companionably in a chair next to him, and Kingsley lounged in a corner, radiating disapproval. Lyubov looked even less happy than Shacklebolt, if that were possible. Harry especially didn't like the look of the two Ukrainian Aurors stationed officially on either side of the open doorway.
"I didn't do anything," Harry repeated rebelliously.
"You accosted the prisoner!" Lyubov accused.
"He was a known Death Eater, and I wanted answers!"
"Did you get any?" His thick eyebrows rose slightly, as Lyubov asked the question in a disarming way.
"I - I - " Harry struggled to think of something plausible. But there wasn't anything to say that wouldn't make him look like a complete lunatic. If it's not already too late to worry about that, he thought glumly. Next to him, Neville sighed audibly. "He knew what happened to Hermione."
Now Neville's sigh had become a groan. Kingsley's eyes slid shut.
"Her-mione?" Lyubov's tongue tripped over the unwieldy syllables. "Granger?" Of course, he had at least heard the name. The Trio was internationally famous.
"The very same," Shacklebolt admitted. "Everyone knows what happened to her, Harry. It was unfortunate, but you can't change it, you can't undo it. It simply is…and if you'd accept that, your life would be much easier."
"It was about revenge, Kingsley!" Harry said entreatingly. "Dolohov knew details - details about my life. He said they were watching me."
"They? Who?" The questions from his boss were crisp and quick. Harry shook his head.
"I - I don't know. He mentioned the brethren; I'm assuming he was referring to Death Eaters." From the disappointed look on Shacklebolt's face, Harry knew that this told them nothing of use. "His last words to me were `She's not - '"
"She's not what?" Lyubov interjected, derision plain in his voice. Harry swept angry eyes over the Ukrainian official, but suddenly felt foolish.
"I thought he might have been about to say, `She's not dead.'"
"That's reaching, Harry," Shacklebolt said honestly, though his voice was not unfriendly.
"You said he said something about Bellatrix Lestrange too, Harry," Neville put in. "How do you know to what `she' Dolohov was even referring?"
"He said `Bellatrix was right.' He and Bellatrix had some kind of scheme - about Hermione. Don't you see? He didn't think it would work, but it did. "
"Harry," his boss said softly. "There very well could have been a plot to end Hermione's life. The Death Eaters could have been targeting her because of you. Perhaps Dolohov was referring to the successful enactment of their plan."
"He said, `There are things worse than death.' Worse than death. Don't you get it? What if they've done something to her?"
"He said that right before he bit the capsule, didn't he?" Kingsley asked. Harry nodded. "Many people would prefer death to the Kiss."
Harry buried his face in his hands. He had been so sure, so certain, but now he wondered. Was he putting his own slant on things, seeing what he wanted to see, rather than other possibilities that were just as logical? He closed his eyes, picturing the rictus of Dolohov's dying face. His teeth had been bared, pressed together…Harry had been positive he was at the beginnings of a "d" sound.
"This conversation is entirely irrelevant," Lyubov broke in, "as it is complete speculation about what a condemned prisoner said before he died, when it is known that the prisoner was not in full possession of his faculties!"
"Dolohov was not crazy!" Harry shouted. "I'd stake my life on it. Do you want to look at what happened in a Pensieve?"
"I have no interest in your memory of events. It does not change the fact that you broke into a cell without authorization, against specific orders from your superior officer, and took down a protective ward guarding a known Death Eater. Then there is the matter of the potion capsule that ensured the prisoner's death…" Lyubov's voice was steady and implacable, as he looked at Harry with distinct dislike.
"You don't think I had anything to do with that?!" Harry was incredulous. "I didn't want him dead, not until…"
"You'd had the glory of doing it yourself?" Lyubov finished for him. Harry's eyes flashed irately.
"The capsule was already in his mouth, probably sealed off, until he broke it himself, with his teeth. I had no idea what he was going to do, until it was too late," Harry said in a monotone, the dull voice belied by his angry eyes.
"This is going to be investigated thoroughly, Mr. Potter," Lyubov assured him.
"I thought you weren't interested in my memory of events," Harry mimicked him nastily. The Ukrainian Chief flushed, and Kingsley's eyes caught Harry's warningly.
"There are monitoring charms on the room. We will be able to see if you forced Dolohov to take a capsule. Now I must take my leave," Lyubov said, with as much false politeness as he could muster. "I need to send an owl to your Minister." His tone was foreboding. When he had exited the room, Harry lowered his head to the table, his forehead smacking it with an audible thud.
"Can they arrest me because of the potion capsule?" he asked, his voice muffled into surface of the table.
"They can," Shacklebolt said evenly. "But their investigation won't turn up any involvement on your part." At Harry's look of mild surprise, he continued, "It was clear that Dolohov had no intention of living long enough to be Kissed. Besides, you are obsessive, and you are reckless and disrespectful, Harry, but you are not a cold-blooded murderer. As for the rest of it…" he spread his hands theatrically with a sigh, and appeared unwilling to continue. "It will cause additional reprimands to appear on your record, and you know what that means…"
Harry swallowed with difficulty, though there was still a mutinous jut to his jaw.
"I'm going to be sacked, aren't I?" He asked. It was not really a question.
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Harry ignored the lone Ministry employee seated at the reception desk, as he stepped out of the International Floo Conduit. The cavernous lobby was dimmed for the evening, and it was still a good two or three hours before even the most ambitious early risers among the sparse weekend workers would arrive to begin their day. He wasn't sure what exactly Kingsley had said to Lyubov, but it - and the lack of evidence turned up on the monitoring charms - had kept him from spending what remained of the night in the Ukrainian detention facility. There was no way to keep the Minister from finding out what had happened, however, and Harry held no illusions about what the status of his job would be come Monday morning.
He couldn't make himself care very much, although there was a niggling feeling of regret, of knowing that she would have been disappointed - in the failure that was indicative of his disinclination to fight against the rising corruption of the Ministry.
He was so very tired of fighting.
He exited the vacant lobby, and began to wander, no particular destination in mind. The wind was comfortable, and it caressed his cheek like the most tender of lovers. Stars studded the indigo sky, and there was still no hint on the horizon of the approaching dawn.
It was Saturday, exactly five years from the day she'd been taken from him. There would be no sunshine today, not for him.
Sleep beckoned. He would be heading to Hogwarts tomorrow, and he'd been up for well over thirty-six hours, but he could not make himself go back to his flat. His mind was whirling furiously, thinking over the events of the day in an ever-mounting certainty that there was something that he'd missed.
A peal of laughter startled him from his reverie, and he looked around to see that he had unwittingly made his way to Diagon Alley. Most of the stores were darkened and locked up, but here and there, light and music and voices spilled from the night spots onto the street. Harry watched dispassionately, trying to remember the last time he'd been a participant in something like that, and found that he couldn't. When had he become a spectator with regard to the rest of humanity? There were annual birthday and Christmas gatherings at the Burrow, of course, and he'd been known to meet members of his Auror Team or old schoolmates down at the pub a time or two, but he still felt disconnected, estranged, on hold… waiting for a life that would never happen, for an opportunity forever squandered.
He kicked at a pebble, and it bounced noisily down the cobblestones, but did not attract any attention from the all-nighters that occasionally spilled out into the main thoroughfare. There was raucous laughter punctuated by coarse remarks. It had been Friday night after all.
She died today, and nobody cares, he thought glumly, and then froze, as he had finally admitted to himself that he really thought she was gone. He felt as if he had betrayed her somehow, and could not stifle the sob that welled up within him. He meandered further, leaving the pubs behind for a more genteel neighborhood of boutiques and small shops that were quietly waiting for morning; he was paying no attention to his aimless path. Then he turned a corner, and stopped dead, as the musical trickle of water reached his ears.
Why the hell did I come here? He asked himself, wondering if he had subconsciously been heading in this direction all along. He hated this place, had been here once at its unveiling, and had sworn to never return.
Before him, glistening faintly in the starlight, was a large golden statue protruding from a fountain. It was quite similar to the statue of the Magical Brethren in the Ministry lobby. It depicted the three of them - the Heroes of Hogwarts - he, Hermione, and Ron. Carved around the pedestal were the names of all fighters lost in the conflict.
This was Victory Square, a new development off of Diagon Alley, neatly manicured, with smooth flagstone walkways, flower gardens, and wrought iron benches beneath low-flung shady trees, perfect for rumination and reflection. The fountain was the Square's center-piece, its focal point. He looked up at the shining gold figures again, his eyes playing over the frozen ringlets, spilling eternally over Hermione's shoulders, a determined look on her face. It was one he recognized, one he had seen times innumerable, the one that was on her face only a few seconds before the Order issued forth from Hogwarts for the beginning of the end. Her wand was drawn, and she was in a defensive posture - they all were - as if alert and ready for impending danger.
He walked around it slowly, his shoes scuffing on the stones, the only figure moving in the large, empty square. He had almost refused to authorize the statue four years ago - back when his opinion still counted for something - until the Ministry had agreed to commission one of all three of them, rather than Harry alone. He walked until he could see it, a carved object nearly impossible to detect, wedged as it was beneath the implacable solidity that was Hermione's other arm.
A book.
It was his only request to the sculptor. She should be carrying a book.
The artist had looked askance at him, but had acceded to the appeal. And so the book had been added to the carving, tucked out of the way, as if Hermione had almost forgotten she was even carrying it, which, he admitted to himself, with a melancholy smile, was entirely possible.
Harry inhaled a noisy, shuddering breath, and sat down suddenly on the edge of the fountain. He missed her so much, so much. Knuts and sickles gleamed and squiggled at the bottom of the pool, and he realized that his wet eyes were also contributing to the shimmering blur. He scraped one hand dismissively across his eyes, smearing the tears indiscriminately across his cheeks, and sniffed loudly, bracing his trembling arms against the cool stone of the fountain's rim.
He craned his neck to see the statue again, now looming above him, partially blotting out the night sky. He and Ron stood there, robes permanently billowing in an everlasting, invisible wind, looking fierce, triumphant, invincible, and Hermione was in the middle, with determined, penetrating eyes, looking slightly upward, as if she saw something they did not - which had also been the case more likely than not. It was a good likeness, really. The sculptor had even gotten their wands right.
He stood, and the fountain blurred and wavered in his foggy vision. Suddenly, he hated the statue - hated the three young people depicted there, people that no longer existed, torn to pieces during the very conflict for which they'd once been lauded. Hermione was gone; he and Ron were broken. Had he ever had that sort of confident intensity, that certainty of victory, that conviction of righteousness?
Before he could really process what was happening, he'd drawn his wand, aiming it at the middle of the piece, where three of their six legs crossed in front of and behind each other, braced, alert, poised for action.
"Reducto!" His voice was low and tear-clogged, but it did the job. His spell smashed through the anti-vandalism wards as if they'd never existed.
He was gone before the cloud of dust cleared, never hearing the heavy chunks of debris as they rained down on the beautiful garden.
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Luna froze with her hand on the knob of the spare-room door, her eyes flickering uncertainly into the darkness that was the living area of the flat.
"Harry?" she called out tentatively. She had peered into his room, on her way from Ron's, and he had not yet been home. This was certainly not unusual, as his hours as an Auror were often long and odd.
"Sorry," came his voice from the darkness, as he slowly shuffled into her view. "Did I wake you?"
"I was up. Just going to bed," Luna said softly, her eyes going swiftly toward Ron's room before she could stop them. He glanced briefly at soft white nightgown that rippled silkily around her, but he said nothing. Luna felt inexplicably guilty. She was doing herself a disservice, going to Ron and using him - and letting him use her - so she could feel close to him for just a moment, so she could pretend it was as it had been before everything had gone awry. She sighed angrily, and lowered her gaze to her white fingers, resting on the door handle.
"I wasn't judging you, Luna," Harry said quietly.
"Yes, you were," she replied, without rancor. "But it doesn't matter, because I was judging myself." A beat. "Where've you been?"
"In the Ukraine," Harry said succinctly. "Neville got Dolohov." Satisfaction flared briefly in Luna's shadowed eyes.
"He'll be Kissed, won't he?" she asked, and looked shocked when Harry shook his head.
"He had a poisoned potion capsule in his mouth. Opened it before anyone knew anything was off. He's dead."
"I'm glad," Luna said sincerely, her eyes gleaming flintily in the darkness, and she moved closer to peer into Harry's face. "Are you okay?" He sagged suddenly, reaching out one arm to brace himself on the doorframe.
"No, I'm not. It's - it's … today, you know." Luna patted his arm sympathetically.
"I know."
"How's Ron?" he asked. Luna shrugged.
"He's Ron," she said simply. "He told me that he told you about what happened… at the final battle." Harry had been staring vaguely in the direction of his shoes, but he snapped his gaze up to meet hers when she spoke.
"Did you know?" he asked intently, and Luna was glad that she could honestly answer in the negative. She shook her head.
"I suspected something had happened that he didn't want to talk about," she answered thoughtfully. "I knew they'd gotten separated at some point before she… but I didn't know the circumstances." She watched him carefully for a long moment. "Are you very angry?"
"I - I don't know; I tried to be," he said dully. "But there are so many things that could've been done differently. I - it hurts to look at Ron and know what he did, but I'm not angry."
"I'm glad," she said again. Her smooth brow crinkled as she watched him carefully. "He's afraid you are, you know. He wasn't quite as drunk tonight, and his regret was all reserved for you… instead - instead of her." Or me, she thought, though he had crumpled into her embrace when he arrived home, murmuring some slurred and nearly unintelligible apology into her hair, his tears dampening the blond tresses, his hands shaky as they moved over her shoulders and back.
"Regret…" he sighed, and the word seemed to hang heavily in the air above their heads. "So much…" There was a long silence. Luna could hear Ron's snores drifting down the hallway.
"Early day tomorrow?" she finally managed, speaking with false lightness. But Harry was having none of it.
"Good night, Luna," he said heavily, the weight of all those regrets evident in his voice, in his eyes, in his stance. She twirled one lock of hair around her finger, as he went into his room.
"Good night, Harry," she replied to the empty corridor.
--
Hope everyone is still enjoying the story. I certainly enjoyed reading everyone's opinions on Ron! I'm glad nobody seems to be judging him too terribly harshly.
I'm not replying to many reviews, unless they ask a question (that won't give away the story) or need clarification, but I am reading and exulting in every single one of them. I got so far behind in replying for "Resistance" that I gave up, and figured we'd all be better off if I just worried about writing the story.
Thanks so much for reading! You may leave a review on your way out, if you like.
lorien
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