Disclaimer: They belong to JKR, I'm only playing.
A/N: Sorry for the lateness; I really wouldn't be if I could help it. About this chapter, the mind will boggle at the magic waning stuff-don't worry too much. It'll all fall into place, just let it be, let the confusion embrace you. All right, shutting up now. (Actually, if it does make sense so far, let me know, yes?) As per custom, many, many thanks to my dearest beta miconic. Enjoy, and leave me a word. And it doesn't have to be nice; con-crit, as I keep saying, is welcome.
***
--Chapter Nine--
Harry follows Sally down the steep, narrow stairs to the Department of Mysteries. The lower five levels of the Ministry, deep underground, remained largely untouched by the fire. The caved-in remains of the top floors have been Concealed to show a large patch of burnt asphalt. Along the stairs, a small window set high in the wall is the only source of light, simulating the glum day above ground.
"I hear that you've been here before, Harry," Sally says over her shoulder.
"Yeah. Once." Harry watches his feet, wondering exactly how much she knows about him. "But we didn't know there was a back entrance. We entered from the circular room."
"These stairs lead only to the Room of Magic. From there you have to go back into the circular room if you want to enter the other rooms. Quite appropriate."
They reach the top, and Sally performs a quick charm before pushing the heavy oak door open.
"Why is it appropriate?"
She steps aside to let him in and he looks around the large chamber, much of it in shadow. He blinks to adjust his eyes to the gloom which is broken only by a few small everlasting candles. A familiar smell greets him, and he breathes deeply, trying to determine what it is.
"Because this is where it all begins for us. Magic is the point of entry into everything else in our lives, isn't it?"
Harry looks at her and she smiles absently. "Make yourself at home, Harry. I'm just going to get a few things ready." She turns away and begins to move around the room, clearing a space on her desk, setting out parchment and ink.
Harry's drawn immediately to the pool of light dancing against the wall. He drapes his cloak over a chair and walks over. "Is that a Pensieve?"
Sally looks over her shoulder. "Yes. It's very old. See how it's made of clay? The modern ones are much fancier."
"How can you work in here? It's so dark."
"I'm used to it now. These--" she waves at the shelves in front of him "--don't tolerate light much."
His glance wavers over the other artefacts on the floor-to-ceiling shelves covering an entire wall. Several more shelves hold a collection of ancient thickly bound books and bundles of rolled up parchment. A large faded tapestry covers the left wall. On the far end of the room is another, larger door cast faintly with a bluish sheen he recognises.
"So, what are we doing?" he says, trying to make out the other objects on the shelves. He's surprised to find the ancient Pensieve flanked not just by rare objects such as a bottled Hippocampus marked as belonging to an extinct breed, but banalities such as a small crystal ball and a lunascope. A sudden idea strikes him and he looks at Sally thoughtfully.
She leans against her desk. "Well, I thought you might still have questions. Seeing as we…we didn't get to go over much the other day."
Harry drags his eyes from a silver goblet and walks over. She seems more relaxed than the day they met her. Now that she's in her own space, her nervous stillness is replaced by an understated grace, as if she's among old friends. As if she's spun of the same thread as the room and its contents, sharing their colours and textures, the muted light and silent, alert waiting. But Harry's still bothered by the spark of recognition that he can't name.
"Is Sally short for anything?" He notices her tiny start and raises an eyebrow. "Or is that the wrong kind of question?"
She meets his gaze. "No, of course not. Sally is…short for Seraphina." She colours a little.
Harry grins. "Oh, I see. That explains itself. I mean, it's not a bad name--"
She smiles faintly. "It's all right. It's a terrible name. My Dad's choice." She shrugs and moves away from the desk, and Harry senses the conversation's over. She picks up a quill.
"So, anyway, if you don't have any questions--"
"Actually, I do." He gestures at the artefacts lining the wall. "Is it possible to…store magic?"
"What do you mean?"
"Well, say someone knew that magic was…running out, waning, can they hoard magic for themselves? Can you somehow--" he searches for a word "--extract the magic from a magical artefact and use it?"
A strange look comes over Sally's face, a sudden stiffness in her stance. Harry stifles a stab of exasperation. She's like an animal in camouflage, he thinks; darting from shadow to shadow, blending into their stillness till it's time to move again. Hunter or prey, he can't tell.
Finally she clears her throat. "There are certain forms of magic that by definition involve preservation. For instance, Horcruxes. But if you mean whether you could somehow remove the magic from that Pensieve and store it within yourself and turn it into, say, a Levitation charm--" she tucks her hair behind her ear "--yes, you can."
"It's very difficult, it'll take a good deal of physical and mental energy but you needn't be particularly strong in magic." She taps her quill against her palm briefly, sets it down and clears her throat. "You can do the same for magical creatures. Why do you ask?"
Harry slides his hands in his pockets. "Things have begun to go missing from our house. Old things, a clock, a vase, a few portraits. And who knows what else."
"Couldn't they just be in Diagon Alley? You know, Mundungus Fletcher, Borgin's and all?"
He shrugs. "I'm looking into it, but somehow I don't think so."
Lack of sleep feels like bands of iron in his head, pulling tighter every second. Neither he nor Ron had any rest after their interrupted conversation. They spent most of the morning trying to determine what was missing from the house, which was difficult since Harry hasn't the slightest idea what was in it in the first place. They owled Fred to make inquiries along his many and not always legal channels of information, and Tonks to check Foreign Customs records. Still, he wonders whether there was any point to any of it at all.
He looks up to find her gaze on him. He's wanted to ask her more about the artefacts and how they could be used, but suddenly uncomfortable, he gestures vaguely around the room.
"So, what do you want me to do?"
As if returning from a reverie, she jumps and clears her throat. "Well. Okay--" She picks up her notes, then sets them down. She repeats the same for her quill and ink. "I've just got a series of questions here. Remember how I said there was a pattern to how magic wanes?"
Harry tries not to stare at her strange motions. "Er, maybe. Remind me again."
She clears her throat again. "Well, if magic is waning, it may show first in the general spells and charms we use daily. But the important part is that quite paradoxically, your ability to do wandless magic lasts longer."
Harry frowns. "That doesn't make sense. Wandless magic is difficult."
"Wandless magic is strong magic. When you use a prop, you put a barrier between yourself and the flow of magic. But when you summon magic without a wand or words, you're tapping into a greater volume, and faster."
Harry shakes his head and stifles a sudden yawn. "I'm not sure what you're getting at. Isn't Apparation a type of wandless magic as well? That's becoming very difficult."
"Yes. But it involves distance. That's why it's failing." She inclines her head, looking at him pointedly. "For most people, at least. You haven't Apparated recently, have you?"
He continues to gaze at her in bafflement. She flattens the dog-eared corner of a parchment with compulsive fingers. "Have you Apparated recently?"
"Yeah, a few weeks ago."
"Did you have any trouble?"
"No. But I took care to Apparate within decent hours."
"But you didn't have any trouble?"
"No."
"Just like you didn't have any trouble opening that bottle of Firewhiskey the other day. Almost as if you didn't have to even think about it."
Harry looks away and paces past the shelves, towards the shimmering door, then back again. "Are you saying that depending on how--" he scratches his head "--good a wizard you are, that is, how good you are at wandless magic at least, you can still sort of keep using magic even if it's running out?"
"Exactly."
He looks at her, his brain trying to catch up. "But that'll be a disaster. If some of us can do magic and others can't…And also, wouldn't we be sort of using up what's left of magic faster?"
Sally looks on silently, neither assent nor argument in her expression. Harry sighs and throws his hands up.
"Okay. All right. But where do I come into all of this? I mean, surely I'm not the only person who can do wandless magic in the entire wizarding community?"
"No. But you're…" she looks at him for a beat, then changes tack. "As you know, the Minister doesn't think magic is waning. He thinks we're just suffering the emotional aftermath of the war. But if that's the case, as I was explaining the other day, you out of all the people shouldn't be able to perform wandless magic. But from what you told me, you're having trouble with some spells and charms, but not wandless magic."
"I don't do a lot of wandless magic, anyway. If my wand doesn't work I just do things the Muggle way." He gestures vaguely. "That day, that whiskey bottle was an exception."
"No one does a lot of wandless, wordless magic, Harry. We're trained to rely on props from a very young age. It's unfortunate."
"It's difficult magic to learn."
She looks away. "Yes. Yes, of course, it is."
Something glints on her table and he catches sight of a wand behind a stack of books. He stares at it without really seeing it, thinking absently that it's a very unusual colour, made of an ivory-hued wood.
"So, let me get this straight. You think that if Scrimgeour's right, then I should be one of the first whose magic would fail."
"Essentially, yes."
"But if Scrimgeour's wrong and magic is definitely running out, then I should be able to carry on doing wandless magic because it's not my ability that's failing, but magic itself."
"Yes."
"So, why me?" Harry prods, a little sharp.
She hesitates. "Well, you did go through some horrendous experiences, the people who brought you up died--"
"Everyone lost someone. Take my friend Ron. He lost nearly everybody." And he actually loved them.
Sally picks up her quill again and begins to tap it rapidly against the edge of the table. Harry grates his teeth against the sound.
"None of this is really about the strength of my magic, or the degree of--what's your word for it--emotional aftermath I'm suffering, is it? It's just because I'm Harry Potter and you think I can do just about anything. Just like everybody else."
"You are the most powerful wizard alive today."
He gives a small, dry laugh, turning away. His eyes drift past the shelf of old books, some with their spines glinting with fading embossed lettering, others tightly bound to prevent disintegration. "So, magic did start waning after…the war?"
For a minute she looks thrown by the sudden change of direction. Then she composes herself. "Well, if there were earlier signs, we missed them. We just weren't looking out for them, I suppose. Voldemort made his Horcruxes years and years ago."
"You said his name."
"I beg your pardon?"
"Nothing. So, Horcruxes cause magic to become weak?"
"Yes. Making one Horcrux is terrible enough, seven would definitely have put pressure on the flow of magic over the years. I believe this is one reason Horcruxes are taken to be such evil magic, you know, whoever did it first must have discovered that it affects magic badly. As for what's happening now, I think it's the blowing up of them--the hundreds of stray pieces--that sparked the sudden decline."
Great, Harry. So you're right. You've caused the decline of magic as well.
He turns his back to her and walks slowly across the room, towards its belly where frail candle-light doesn't reach. Shadows mould square corners into an undefined softness, giving the chamber a cave-like shape. His own voice ripples back at him in a faint echo.
"All right. So, say I continue to do wandless magic while every other kind fails--how is that going to convince Scrimgeour? Harry Potter can do wandless magic so magic must be failing? Doesn't sound very convincing, does it? And even if you do convince him, what's that going to do? He can't exactly stop it, can he? He'll pretend he can, of course, in true Scrimgeour style, but there really is nothing he can do, is there?"
After a tiny pause Sally speaks quietly, a cautious note in her voice.
"No, but we could prepare ourselves. Even if we can't stop it, we can do something about it. For starters, people could be taught proper wandless magic, at least to make use of in an emergency, or to preserve parts of our way of life."
She gazes at him, her eyes wide but shuttered. "Harry, I can't convince the Minister. You can. It doesn't look that way now, I know, but the wizarding world is behind you. They'll always listen to you."
"Right. Of course."
He stares at the tapestry hanging on the far wall, lit by the blue sheen from the door. In excruciating detail, in now-faded crimson and gold thread, it depicts a rising phoenix, its throat and wings arched, ready to take flight.
Did Fawkes ever get tired of it?
Of constantly bursting into flames and coming back again, just to repeat the whole thing, over and over?
He turns around and runs his hands through his hair. "I'm sorry, Sally. I'm sorry to have wasted your time, to have gotten your hopes up but this--I can't do this." I can't even begin understand it. "I'm very sorry."
He meets her eyes briefly, walks over, picks up his cloak and drapes it over his shoulders, crossing to the door.
"She didn't come back, did she?"
He turns around distractedly, a hand on the carved door handle. "Who?"
"Your friend. Hermione."
Harry stares at her. "No."
Sally nods and walks over to hold the door for him. He senses no disappointment and that unsettles him.
"Thank you for coming, Harry. It's been lovely meeting you."
"Yeah…you too. Bye, Sally."
The door shuts without a sound. He sprints up the stairs, wanting to get away as fast as he can.
Then he stops abruptly, realising the source of the familiar smell in the chamber, as if its sudden withdrawal with the shutting of the door let out a catch in his memory.
The room had smelled like old things, of parchment and old books, of ink and chewed quills, all gathered in one place, a fragrance deepened by the aged artefacts lining the walls. Sweet, busy and slightly dusty--the room smelled almost like Hermione.
*
The late afternoon grinds through him, slow, tortuous. A storm gathers outside, the wind determined to strip the January sky. If only. He stares out the window for a moment, then returns to the bike.
The house was empty when he returned, with a note from Ron tagged to the kitchen door. Lunch seemed too much trouble. He trudged upstairs thinking of sleep, but was distracted by a half open door. He doesn't know how long he stood there, looking into her room. Then, sinking anew and abandoning the idea of sleep, he turned to the bike.
His wand lies aside. Using his hands feels good; the callusing skin, the straining of muscle feel real, solid. The tyre needs magic or better Muggle tools than what he's got. So he lays that aside, trying to fix what he can, which involves mainly cleaning. Crookshanks watches from atop a crate, tail flicking, an air of calm anticipation about him. Harry throws an irritable rag at him. Who're you waiting for? A faint thump echoes through the hollow house. Harry stiffens.
The kneazle hops down, stretches, puffs up his fur and begins to glide downstairs.
*
She pushes open the door, holding her breath so tightly her lungs feel weighted with stone. A burst of wind trails the door but is quickly marshalled out. Something brushes past her leg.
"Crookshanks!"
But before she can pick him up, he marches out through the cat-flap, a scathing look on his face.
Inside, everything is still. She takes off her cloak and hangs it on the troll-leg. Gloom encloses her. As she takes a few hesitant steps inside, she's met with a vague sense of something missing but she tells herself it's probably her own courage. The corner of her lip is already raw from the forty-minute train ride. She has half a mind to run back quietly out the door. Sudden darts of light draw her eye to the fish-tank and, not knowing what else to do, she walks slowly up the stairs.
A field of bubble covers half the surface of the tank. Angus and Josephine swim the length of the water serenely. Gogol blusters in a corner, industriously spinning his bubble nest. Hermione wiggles a finger in the water, making the two mollies dance up to the top.
The floorboards creak.
"Hermione."
She whips around. Her throat almost closes up.
"Hi Harry."
She wishes that she had run out the door. She tries to remember why she's here and her mind draws a blank. He stands a few stairs above her and stares. At the sheer joy of just seeing him her rushing heart pushes everything else away, words, excuses, explanations, breath. Her mind scrabbles for purchase of some solid, sensible fact.
"Aren't you cold? It's--it's freezing out there."
He wears only jeans and an old checked shirt with the sleeves rolled up, both smeared with grease. The shirt's haphazardly buttoned, its collar hanging off one shoulder. In one hand he clutches his wand, in the other a blackened rag. No prizes for guessing what's occupying his time. The whiff of grease speeds up the guilty beat of her heart.
He gestures with the rag.
"I--I wasn't expecting you." He swallows. "Have you come to collect your things?"
"I--what?" She stares.
"Your…stuff. I could--"
"I didn't come to collect my things."
"Oh."
"Do you want me to take my…things?" She can barely hear her own voice.
"What? No. I mean, I just thought…" A hand rakes through hair. "Well, you can hardly blame me for not knowing how it works anymore." He tugs her eyes to his, voice flinty.
Her knees begin to wobble and she sits down on the dank stair.
Great start, Hermione.
He stays standing. She clutches her bag to her stomach. She senses him waiting for her to say something, but doesn't know what to say. Finally, he drops to a stair above her, half facing her. She's terrified to look at him because she might never be able to look away, and that would be bad because soon she'll have to leave. Soon, he'll want her to leave.
Well, what did you expect?
She shifts and clears her throat. "Where's Ron?"
"At the Burrow."
"Right."
He leans stiffly against the banister. She winces at the careful distance he keeps. Angus swims through Gogol's nest and Gogol lunges. Light and shadow shift over the walls and ceiling, a troupe of dancers with their steps all wrong, tripping across each other's path.
She grabs her bag tighter and tries to keep her voice steady.
"Harry, I just…came to--"
He glances at her and she dips her head to rummage in her bag.
"--to give you this." She holds out the scroll case. "I think it might help…when…when you see that Unspeakable."
He pushes his glasses straight with the back of one hand, staring at the case. He takes it, turns it over on his palm, then puts it down on the stair. She pulls her eyes away from the healing yellow scar down his forearm.
He clears his throat. "I've already been to see her. And…it's not going to work, what she wants me to do--Hermione, why are you really here?"
Flinching, she looks at him. His eyes look like they haven't had a minute's rest for weeks and stubble stands on his jaw. His knuckles are white around his wand. She wants to touch him so badly, just to hold his hand perhaps, pull his shirt straight over his shoulder, coax open his clenched fist. He's trying so hard to stay locked and bolted against her, but is sabotaged by his bare shoulder and brutally boyish hair.
She gets ready to flee.
"All right, don't worry. I'm going…not staying if you don't want me to--"
"What? No!"
He scrambles down and suddenly, she finds herself wedged between the stair and the banister. His wand clatters down the stairs.
"Harry--"
"Why are you doing this?" A brittle note splits his voice.
His fingers grip her arms, a knee presses against her thigh. Her body strains backwards against the banister, her legs awkward over the stairs. Pain everywhere, worst of all his eyes, bright and broken. And where he's touching her--hip, cheek, thigh--a screaming sweetness. His lips are so close, she only has to tip her head to reach them. She wrenches her eyes away, her breath coming in gasps.
"Harry, you're hurting me--"
"You know I don't want you to go. But you…you left once, and I mean it, I really don't know how it works anymore. Hermione--"
His hand comes up to her cheek, gruff around her jaw-line. Her hair pulls, tangled around his fingers. His thumb sears the corner of her lip.
"--you have to look at me--"
She gasps and obeys, shocked at the coil of heat spiralling in her belly. His eyes are way too close, too deep. Suddenly, she's maddened at how very complicated she's made everything. How with her righteous tugging and pulling, she's made an impossible snarl of the simplest thing ever to be spun out of their frenzied lives. She misses him so much, hates herself so much, and cannot bear the thought of another day away and all she wants to say is sorry, so, so sorry, and please can she come home--
She reaches for his lips.
*
The first thought in his head is that surely it can't be winter because here she is, a bolt of heat rushing into all his desolate places. They've somehow ended up against the opposite banister with her half in his lap, half kneeling on the stair. She's holding his face, her lips on his, almost tearing through him, skin and breath entangled. He wonders why she keeps saying sorry, why she's crying. He ropes a hand around her waist to keep her as close as he can.
But winter comes naturally to him, so a second later he pulls back to look at her. It's not that he doesn't trust her, he just doesn't trust hope. Tear-streaked and dishevelled, unbearably lovely, she looks suddenly uncertain.
"Don't." He can barely speak. He leans his forehead against hers to catch his breath.
"Don't what?" Her voice too is hoarse, and he feels her small startled motion.
"Don't keep saying sorry. Doesn't make sense." He watches her face, her eyes now darker, and senses her getting ready to explain. So he leans forward again, trying to reach all of her at once, all in a single, strangled breath.
"I said don't."
I don't want to talk, to set things right, straight. I don't want to think. I can't.
When he has no breath left he leans back, her cheek pressed to his. He caresses whorls of damp hair over her neck, leaving greasy fingerprints, which he begins to erase with his lips. She makes a small sound and heat rears back up his belly. But there's a stronger impulse rushing through him, louder, needier and in some ways simpler. He pulls her securely up to his lap, wraps his arms tightly around her and closes his eyes against her damp skin.
"But you can't go now. You can never go--"
"No, not going anywhere. I promise."
--end chapter nine--