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Chapter title attributed to French novelist Honoré de Balzac: "Hatred is the vice of narrow souls; they feed it with all their littleness, and make it the pretext of base tyrannies."
Chapter 11: The Pretext of Base Tyrannies
The box of memories was by and large disappointing. Even the second or third time through they revealed no more secrets than on the first viewing. In fact the only possibility of any form that the three Gryffindors could justify was that Voldemort had hidden a Horcrux at Hogwarts when he came to meet with Dumbledore, and even that was a long shot. The main problem with that theory was that Hogwarts was such a large place; Voldemort could have hidden it anywhere. So they took it in turns to wander the halls wearing the curse detection ring Harry had obtained from Bill, hidden by a clever glamour charm of Hermione's to avoid attracting attention. The searches yielded no results.
In the meantime, Mad-Eye and Iain were putting the trio through their paces. Every morning, rain or shine, was started with a number of laps around the lake followed by stretching and endurance spell casting. It took so long, and was so exhausting, that the three of them were usually falling asleep over what little breakfast they had time to eat. Ron in particular was complaining about losing weight, something Hermione commented he could probably stand to do. He didn't complain as much after that conversation.
And so Friday, September nineteenth dawned. Iain had negotiated a break in training for the day, because of it being Hermione's eighteenth birthday, and no one complained about the extra sleep, or the extra breakfast.
Speaking of, Harry and Hermione spent breakfast sneaking looks at each other across the table, like the love-struck teenagers they were. The truly amusing part is that no one noticed, despite the obvious lack of subtlety. Ron was eating too much to notice much of anything, and the multitude of girls who usually watched Harry were looking dejectedly at their plates as they ate. About midway through the meal the doors burst open and a woman walked in. She would have been about twenty-five, had long black hair and brown eyes. She was dressed as a muggle, in jeans and a short-sleeved blouse. She ignored everyone in the room, walking determinedly to the head table and stopping in front of one particular person.
"Are you Dr Iain C. A. Menzies?" she asked the man in front of her, who had looked up from his waffle curiously. Her voice had an odd melody to it, it was familiar and yet not.
By now every eye in the hall was looking at the young woman and the professor old enough to be her father. Harry saw Iain's flick over the scene before he replied, slowly. "Yes, I am."
She pulled a photograph out of her pocket and put on the table. He glanced at it, and his eyes widened. "Do you remember Amelia Bright?" she asked him. He nodded, eyes still glued to the photo. The blood was slowly draining from his face. "Well, I'm your daughter." Any colouring left in Iain's face vanished. The entire student body gasped as one. The poor Scotsman looked like he was having trouble breathing, until his 'daughter' simply melted away. He, along with everyone else, looked down the table to see McGonnagall with her wand out. The staff and students began laughing, finally understanding what was going on: payback. None laughed harder than Iain himself, once his face had regained its natural colour.
Beyond that the trio had a rather uninteresting day, at least until their spare period right after lunch. Ron had fallen behind on an essay Mad-Eye had set on offensive magic, so Harry and Hermione left him in the library. Instead they decided to head for a walk around the castle, since it was starting to get too cold to go outside. At some point in one of the third-floor corridors, they were halted by the sudden appearance of Blaise Zabini. And he looked mad. "You and your mudblood humiliated me on the train, Potter." He spat menacingly.
Harry forced himself to look disinterested, even though inside he was seething at the Slytherin's gall. Obviously he hadn't learnt his lesson the first time: no one calls Hermione Granger a mudblood in the presence of Harry Potter. "That was two weeks ago Zabini, I can't believe it took you that long to come up with such a terrible speech." Hermione returned without hesitation.
Zabini glared at her. "And here I thought Potter and Weasley would have been fucking you so hard you'd have forgotten how to count. How foolish of me." That was the final straw. Harry's wand was in his hand instantly, but he felt a blunt object strike him on the back of the head and he knew no more.
***
Harry's first observation upon regaining consciousness was that he was unable to move. That was no doubt due to the fact that he was quite literally chained to a dungeon wall. Judging by the drafts, and the green carpets, he was in the Slytherin dormitory. A short distance away Hermione was also chained, but she was suspended in the center of the room, and gagged. A small table nearby held their wands. Soft footsteps alerted them to the approach of Zabini. "Welcome back to the land of the living." He sneered, seeming much more at ease now that he was in control.
Harry found himself wishing that Iain had started teaching them wandless magic. Too late, unfortunately. All he could do was make the best of things. "Dare I ask what it is you want Zabini?" he asked hatefully. He had a ghost of an idea forming in the darkest depths of his mind, but he dearly hoped it was wrong. No such luck.
"Why not?" their new nemesis shrugged. "It's very simple, the Dark Lord has offered a rather large reward for anyone who brings him the breathing body of Harry Potter." Harry found himself wondering what this had to do with Hermione, but the dark-skinned Slytherin anticipated him. He moved close enough to his captive that he was breathing on her. She turned her head away in revulsion. "I'm sure he'll pay extra for your bitch, and then kill her. But that doesn't mean we can't have a little fun first." Hermione turned to look at her captor, and Harry was shocked to see the lack of fear. It must have unnerved Zabini too, because he hesitated a moment before reaching his hand towards her.
A low humming stopped him. Harry looked around to see a tall figure wandering towards them, seemingly aimlessly, one hand trailing on the stone wall. He was humming a traditional Scottish tune as he walked, seemingly having no direction. The truly unusual thing is that his feet made no sound on the floor. As he approached, Harry could see that it was Iain. Zabini turned to glower at the figure, who stopped a few feet away from the scene. He was sporting a disappointed look that Harry had only seen once before, on the face of an elderly Welsh monk. "Now Mr Zabini, you wouldn't have been planning to do anything untoward with this helpless young lady would you?" the question was obviously rhetorical, and the Scot took another couple of steps forward.
"How did you get past my guards?" Zabini asked, shocked and maybe a little scared. Iain smirked, and gave a dismissive wave with the hand that was not touching the wall. The bound figures of Crabbe and Goyle appeared on the floor behind him. "This doesn't concern you mudblood. Just turn around, and walk away." He warned the much older teacher. Harry could have sworn he heard a note of fear in the boy's voice.
Iain's look of disappointment vanished, replaced with an unnatural calm. "I will give you one final opportunity to leave this room Blaise Zabini. I suggest you do so." His voice was as dark and cold as Harry had ever heard it. It brought to mind memories of a particular Russian. The message was clear: get out, or else. Zabini obviously didn't get the memo, and his wand was quickly drawn. Iain did not move a muscle. The Slytherin shouted a familiar incantation, firing a bolt of green light at his Transfiguration professor. The Scotsman made no movement, until the bolt was scarcely inches from his nose. His mouth dropped open slightly and, though he could hear no sound, Harry's eardrums began to ache. A portion of the wall burst out, stopping the Killing Curse dead and shattering into a cloud of dust. The scot pointed a single finger at Zabini and flicked it skywards.
The Slytherin's wand flew up, following the arc of Iain's finger, and embedded itself in the stone ceiling. A complicated gesture of the professor's hand, which was now holding a ball of fire, and he was pushed against the far back wall. Unflinchingly, the Slytherin boy leapt forward, pulled a small dagger out of his robe and held it to Hermione's throat. "One more move and she's dead." He warned, citing a vastly overused cliché in the process. The fire in Iain's hand flickered and died out.
Harry, on the other hand, was filled with an all-encompassing feeling of ultimate rage. He could actually feel his muscles quivering, but barely noticed the lights in the room flicker for a moment. Iain's head spun to look at Harry, and the Gryffindor hero saw fear in them for the first time. Even Zabini seemed frightened, and he looked around confusedly at the erratic lighting. Then, suddenly, all the lamps in the room exploded in a couple of dozen showers of glass shards. The only remaining source of light was a far-off hallway. At the same time, Harry was released as the portions of wall bearing his shackles gave way with a sickening crunch. The entire room was pulsing, crackling with the sheer power he was exuding. The knife at Hermione's throat began to smoke, before transforming into a rather large snake. A harsh command in Parsletongue and the python was wrapping itself around the legs of the boy who had just dropped it in shock.
As Harry moved forward he was dimly aware that his feet were not touching the floor, but that he was floating a half-inch above it. He could feel the power within him welling up, knowing without knowing that its intent was to kill Blaise Zabini. Before it could be released, he felt something holding him back. Looking around he could see that portions of the wall had wrapped themselves around his arms, and they were leeching the excess power off of him. He fell to the floor, gasping for air, the snake vanished, and Zabini whistled shrilly. A large number of Slytherins, of varying ages, burst into the room. However they were unable to accomplish anything, as Iain dispatched them very quickly. Harry didn't see how, but he did look up in time to see a hollow portion of the ceiling descend on the Slytherin prefect and trap him within.
He got up shakily and pulled the ball of cloth out of Hermione's mouth. "What was that Harry? You looked like you were going to kill him!" How very typical that the first thing out of Hermione's mouth was a question, and the next was a reprimand. Harry solemnly hoped that she never changed.
"I wanted to, I really did." He responded hesitantly. His throat was very dry, and his movements still stiff, but he tried fruitlessly to undo her bonds. He looked helplessly at the Transfiguration professor, who picked an imagined piece of lint off of his jacket. His other hand tapped the wall gently, and Hermione fell into Harry's arms. "How did you do that?" he demanded of the secretive Scotsman.
He shrugged. "The same way I found you two, the same way I blocked the Killing curse, and the same way I trapped Mr Zabini over there." His hand was idly tracing the mortar of the wall. "The Castle helped me." He would say no more about it, but approached and knelt down next to Hermione. "I'm not so worried about you Harry, but Ms Granger is a different story. If you would permit me?" The man's hand stretched out, fingers splayed, and his eyes closed gently. The hand, which was hovering a fraction of an inch over her head, followed her natural lines. Harry heard him mumble something about head trauma under his breath, and the hand moved down. Just as Harry was about to protest how close he was to her breasts, he stopped right between them. Brown eyes flicked open in shock, and Harry saw fear again. "Oh no." Iain was shaking his head slowly. "No, no, no this is bad." Both Harry and Hermione were staring at him, not understanding. The professor took a deep breath. "Hermione, I need to operate. Something happened to you once, not that long ago, and I would have done something sooner if I'd known. You might be seriously injured, but if you trust me you will feel no pain." His eyes were questioning, and Hermione nodded. "Look into my eyes. This is the last of my secrets." As she did, Harry saw the world go black.
***
When his vision cleared, he was no longer in the Slytherin common room. He was in a white operating room. Through an archway at one end, he could see an expansive and luxurious palace. The air was thick, but clean. On a ceramic operating table nearby, Hermione lay. He could see her chest rise and fall with her breath. Iain walked up from elsewhere in the building, dressed in surgical scrubs. "What is this place?" Harry asked in awe.
Iain smiled. "This is the palace of my memory. Every experience I have ever had, for good or for ill, is catalogued in this palace." His eyes drifted out the arch, to a sunken pool of shimmering gold. "While I am operating you may wander as you wish, but I advise you not to touch anything. Some of my memories are not pleasant." Iain did not utter another word, but he moved a tray of instruments over to Hermione and began to work. Harry had never had a stomach for those sorts of things, so he contented himself to roam the palace and admire the many beautiful things in it. He saw many sculptures and paintings he recognized, many frescos and tapestries he didn't, and a great deal of things he knew no name for. He noticed that, during his explorations, he moved extremely rapidly. It must have had something to do with the fact that the entire experience was a figment of his professor's imagination. Sort of.
Shortly, a little too shortly in Harry's opinion, he found himself sitting in Iain's office. The man was smiling contentedly, and Hermione was sitting nearby. She did not seem to be in any pain. "I have good news." Iain announced happily. "You have suffered no permanent injuries from the attack a few years ago, Hermione. However if Dolohov's curse had struck just an inch and a half to the left, we would not be having this conversation." He added solemnly. Both teens drooped their heads, feeling just how lucky she had been. "On a more practical note, I believe it is time I taught you some basic self-defence techniques." The professor stood, and the room shifted around the three of them, and they found themselves in a padded practice room. A variety of Japanese swords hung from a rack at one end, and a scabbard with another lay on the floor near them. Iain produced a length of rope from nowhere, and it proceeded to bind his hands tightly behind his back.
"Let's start with first principles; attack me." He ordered. Harry, sensing a trick, approached cautiously. When Iain made no motion towards him, he gained confidence. His arm lashed out and, before he even knew what had happened, he was on the ground. He had felt no magic use, so he had to assume that Iain had dodged the blow and tripped him. The man's hands were still bound. "The first thing you must learn is speed. In any fight, the advantage will always be with the quick over the strong." His eyes flicked up to the ceiling, and two small holes appeared, each dripping water at a steady rate. "Your task for today is to pass your hand through the drops without getting wet."
Iain kept them at it until the bell to signal the next class, at which point their robes reappeared. The training had seemed very pointless at first, but the more Harry thought about it, the more he understood; what was the point of learning combat unless you could be quick, as well as strong?
***
After classes Hermione opted out of dinner, disappearing up to the Head's tower on the excuse of being "A little tired from training." After a meal he barely picked at, something Ron commented on but wasn't answered, Harry went up and found her sitting on the couch in their common room. She was resting her chin on her knees, arms wrapped around her shins, as she stared into the fire. The light reflected off her glistening eyes and the tear tracks running down her face. Harry sat down beside her and wrapped her in his arms, wiping her face in the process. "That's twice." She mumbled, still staring into the flickering flames. "Twice in just over a month that I've almost been...abducted." She could bring herself to say the word Harry knew she was thinking. She turned and buried her face in the crook of his arm, as fresh sobs racked her frame. "Why is it always me? Am I just that weak?" she choked out.
Harry's fingers were tracing random patterns on her back as he held her tight. "Of course you aren't. They always go after you because they're afraid of you." He soothed. She sniffed loudly, describing her doubts more effectively than words ever could. "No, it's true. Do you know why the Sorting Hat put you in Gryffindor rather than Ravenclaw? I do." He pulled back slightly, just enough to tilt her face up and look her in the eye. "It's because you have the heart of a lion, and don't let anybody tell you otherwise." He smiled at her. A smile broke through, slowly but surely, on her face. She laughed a bit, more like a hiccough.
"How is it you always know exactly what to say to make me feel better?" she asked him, trying and failing to sound annoyed with him. His smile grew, and he just held her tighter. Neither of them went to bed that night; they fell asleep on the couch by the fire, each in the arms of the person they loved most of all.
I hope that wasn't too awful for everybody, and I hope the little fluff moment at the end evened things out if it was. Zabini's fate will be decided soon enough.
I know the training exercise seems pointless, but there's some logic to it. For the interested, the concept is from the movie version of The Count of Monte Cristo, featuring Richard Harris (the original Dumbledore; rest in peace)