Whatever remains must be the truth

My response to PjlikesAUfanfic’s challenge at http://talk.portkey.org/index.php?showtopic=26635

Once more, Harry Potter does not belong to me or anyone I know. Get over any notions you have about suing me and just read the story already!

Story title attributed to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, author of the famous Sherlock Holmes stories, from his novel A Scandal in Bohemia: “Once you eliminate the impossible, whatever remains, no matter how improbable, must be the truth.”

Chapter title attributed to American Actor Steven Wright: “Depression is merely anger without enthusiasm.”

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Anger without enthusiasm

It was with heavy heart that Harry Potter stared into the night sky. It hadn’t even been a month since he had taken his OWL examinations, back when things were comparatively simple, but so much had changed. Sirius was gone, like everyone else in his life he loved, and he was the only one who could defeat Lord Voldemort, according to a prophecy made before he was born by Professor Trelawny of all people.

But even those two, which were heavy-hitters in and of themselves, could not compare to the biggest shock of them all. He could remember the moment vividly: Hermione Granger, fighting like an angel of death, having just saved his ass from the fire for about the thousandth time. A slash from Dolohov, a violet flame, and she crumpled. Harry remembered in vibrant detail his feelings at that moment. Pain, loss, grief, hatred, guilt, anger, depression, and confusion. But the largest of all were guilt and pain. He knew that they had been in the Department of Mysteries because of him, and therefore it was his fault that she was injured so severely. And he knew that, if she were to…pass on, he would not be able to live with himself. It made him re-evaluate his feelings towards the sister he never had.

Oh, who was he kidding? There was no such person as Hermione Potter, honorary or not. She was Hermione Granger, and only a real idiot would ever believe that he considered her a sister. That was simply the lie he told everyone, especially Ron, to protect her from him. He had known, maybe since that fateful moment on September first 1991 when a bushy-haired and bucktoothed girl asked if he had seen a toad, that he was forever ruined for other women. Call him dramatic, but even before he was interested in girls he knew that Hermione would be the only one for him. Of course sometimes, no matter how much you want it, you and your love are never meant to be together.

Such was the case with him and Hermione. Even Harry, who would readily tell you didn’t have the faintest idea how to interpret emotions, could see that Ron was head-over-heels infatuated with their mutual best friend. He wouldn’t call it love, mostly because doing so would tear out the last shred of his wounded heart.

Don’t get the wrong idea, Harry was not sitting on the windowsill of the smallest bedroom of number four, Privet drive just to mourn lost love and lost life. He was mourning Sirius, certainly, but he was also contemplating. It had been so long since he had allowed himself to feel anything non-platonic for his best friend, (and not the one with red hair) that he had almost forgotten what it felt like. The subject of his contemplation was simply whether or not it was worth it. He knew that Ron had strong feelings for Hermione, though whether they equalled his own remained to be seen, and he strongly suspected that she had strong feelings for him. He was very sure that Krum wasn’t in the picture, but Ginny was another story. He remembered how shy she had been around him when they had first met, and how Hermione had once told him that she had a huge crush on him. Of course Hermione had also said that she had given up, but Harry didn’t think so. He knew Molly Weasley fairly well and doubted that any daughter of hers would be so quick to give up, if she was even half the woman her mother was. Of course he didn’t feel anything towards Ginny, but he didn’t want to alienate the Weasleys if he could possibly avoid it. They had treated him like their own son, and were the closest thing to a family he could ever remember.

Wherever his contemplating would have taken him, he did not reach his destination that night. A silvery, translucent alligator was swimming through the air towards his window. For a moment Harry wondered if he was dreaming, if he had fallen asleep on the windowsill, but as it came closer he noticed that it resembled a Patronus. He scrambled away from the window to let it in, not wanting to find out if Patroni were solid or not, and it landed gracefully on his floor. It turned its long head to look at him, and smiled a very dangerous looking smile. It opened its mouth and Harry backed away, feeling rather leery at the thought of potentially becoming a snack.

“Get downstairs on the double lad, we don’t have all day.” A very familiar gruff Irish voice emanated from the opened jaws, and the alligator vanished. Harry couldn’t place the voice, but he knew well enough that the talking Patronus was an ability exclusive to the Order of the Phoenix. For the moment, that was good enough for him. He rushed down into the living room, a thundering Uncle Vernon and a whimpering Aunt Petunia following him, the former demanding to know what in the blue blazes was going on.

The living room was mysteriously empty, something which simply enraged Uncle Vernon even more. He picked his nephew up by the throat and slammed him against the wall. “What do you think you’re doing boy, running down here at three in the morning like the Devil was after you? Don’t you even have the manners to let us sleep?” he spat, his face rapidly growing purple.

Even if Harry had been inclined to respond, he would have found himself physically incapable of doing so. Uncle Vernon, in his rage, had tightened his grip so much that Harry was in serious danger of asphyxiation. Without warning, he heard a shriek of fear from Aunt Petunia and Vernon’s eyes grew wide. “Put the boy down, slowly.” A Russian voice commanded from behind Harry’s uncle. The latter’s girth prevented Harry from seeing the former, but he soon found himself on the ground massaging his throat. Angry purple welts were already growing where Vernon’s fingers had been only moments before. He would be wearing a scarf for weeks. “Now, put your hands against the wall and stay there.” The Russian commanded yet again.

For some unknown reason, Vernon did not take kindly to this command. He clumsily swung his fist around to deck the interloper, of whom Harry now got his first glimpse. He was tall, had a very plain looking face, a high forehead, greying black hair, and wore opaque black wraparound sunglasses. He was wearing a black suit, double-breasted jacket, black shirt and tie, and had black leather gloves on his hands. In one hand was a very menacing looking black Glock pistol. He dodged the swing effortlessly, and tripped Vernon with a low swing of his leg. In a fraction of a second his black boot was pressing into Vernon’s thick neck. “For your own sake, I suggest you do not do that again.” He advised coldly. The mere tone of his voice made the room feel much colder. Vernon nodded quickly, and the Russian incapacitated him with a kick to the temple.

“Who…who are you?” Harry croaked. His larynx was still not fully recovered.

The Russian turned to him and bowed low. “I have many names. You may call me simply Aleksandr Ivanóv. I am your bodyguard.” He holstered his gun under his arm, inside his jacket, and withdrew a cigarette and a lighter.

“No smoking in the house.” Petunia whimpered, more out of habit than anything else. Aleksandr fixed her with an expressionless look, which silenced her immediately, but he pocketed the objects anyway.

A familiar, rhythmically uneven footstep brought another man into view. This one was shorter; though that may have been attributed to his bent back, and wore Dragonhide armour under a black greatcoat. His right eye was electric blue and spinning wildly, and his left leg was little more than a carved wooden stump. “Leave it be. We need to get out of here anyway.” He ordered in a gruff voice, the same one that came from the alligator. Harry put two and two together, and came up with four. Mad-Eye had sent the Patronus. “Come on lad, we’re taking you to headquarters. We’ll explain on the way.” He picked the boy up roughly, and steered him out of the room.

“Wait!” Petunia’s desperate cry stopped both the Irishman and the Russian. “Take me with you, please!” Aleksandr looked at Mad-Eye, who shrugged. The Russian gripped her bony arm and steered her out of the house.

“Mad-Eye?” Harry asked tentatively. It was always best to be cautious around the unpredictable ex-Auror. He received a grunt of recognition. “How are we getting there, and why are we going?”

Mad-Eye didn’t answer for a little while. Just when Harry had given up hope of finding out, he received an answer. “We’re apparating. And Amelia Bones was killed a few days ago. We aren’t taking any chances.” Harry remained silent. Amelia Bones had been one of the few people who had believed him, and had almost stood up for him during his trial the previous summer. He couldn’t help but wonder if Voldemort was trying to eliminate the strong-minded at the Ministry, as if he was going to take over. It was a frightening thought.

Suddenly, the small escort stopped. They were quite a distance away from the house, at the end of Privet drive. Mad-Eye gripped his arm firmly, and Harry saw Aleksandr do the same to Aunt Petunia. With no warning at all, Harry felt like his entire body was dissolving into the air. Though not painful, it was a very unusual feeling. The sensation only lasted a moment, and then he found himself back at Grimmauld Place. Not somewhere he really wanted to be, all things considered. Mad-Eye thrust a piece of parchment under Petunia’s nose. “Memorize.” He snarled. When he was confident that she had, he incinerated it. They waited a moment as Petunia got over the shock of seeing a building appear out of nowhere, and they entered.

12 Grimmauld Place hadn’t changed one iota, which elicited a satisfyingly depressed moan from Aunt Petunia. Hey, she had basically abused him for almost sixteen years. He was allowed to be vindictive. Mad-Eye and Aleksandr led them upstairs, directing them to different rooms on different floors. Petunia’s room was an entire level up; where Harry was in the same room he had shared with Ron during his last visit. In the room Harry found that his trunk had already been relocated. Fortunately he had never emptied it, so everything he owned was in that spare bedroom.

Not bothering to unpack, he simply meandered downstairs. On the way he passed a door he hadn’t noticed the last time he was there. It was made of stainless steel, and looked out of place in the old style home. He pushed it open gingerly. Beyond it was a makeshift hospital room. There were six beds, a potions cabinet, and a variety of muggle life support machines. Only one bed, he noticed, was occupied. It was the furthest away from him, and he couldn’t make out who was lying there. Whoever it was, they were hooked up to two intravenous drips of some fluorescent potions. Another several bottles were sitting on the nightstand next to the bed.

He entered and carefully made his way towards the bed. He must have made some sound, because he could see the prone figure rustling with something on their chest. The actions became more frantic as he approached, but eventually they stopped altogether. He came slowly closer, and the person began to take form. She, for she was definitely female, was wearing white cotton hospital pyjamas. She had brown eyes that followed him, her head and its bushy brown hair not moving. “Hi.” She greeted. Her voice was small and raspy.

He located a chair and sat down next to her bed. “Hi.” He returned, his happiness at seeing her tempered by his sorrow at seeing her in such a state. “How are you doing?” he asked, not sure if he wanted to know. Frankly he didn’t have anything else to say.

She fixed him with her You Are So Stupid Harry™ look. “Dumb question.” She commented, indicating the IV tubes and the row of vials with a flick of her eyes. They shared a chuckle, but Hermione’s turned into a raspy cough. As her gaze flicked back to his face, they settled on the midway point on his neck. Specifically the part of his neck that still bore finger-shaped bruises. “Oh my god, Harry! What happened to you.” Despite her extensive injuries she could still focus on his well-being. It made him feel rather warm inside.

“Nothing.” He lied quickly. She looked at him disbelievingly, so he thought it best to change the subject. “I thought you were cured, you were fine on the train.” He commented confusedly. Sure she had been wincing a bit, but she was at least walking.

She shrugged, wanting to find out what had happened to him but comfortable that he would talk when he was ready. “So did I. I started having chest pains a day or two after getting home, and Madame Pomfrey brought me here.” She stared at the wall, her eyes distant. “Remus said he would go pick up my parents, bring them here too.”

On cue the door burst open. Harry stood up respectfully as a man about his height stumbled through. He had a mess of dark brown hair, brown eyes behind oval glasses, and was wearing a tweed two-piece suit. He whirled around once, as though he had tripped and was trying to regain his balance, and homed in on Hermione as soon as he caught sight of her. His wife followed, with considerably more dignity. She was shorter than her husband, with long golden-brown hair. She was wearing jeans and a blue polo shirt. Hermione’s father stood before Harry, giving him an appraising look. Their heights were about even. “Jason Granger.” He introduced, extending his hand. “You must be Harry. We’ve heard a great deal about you.” Harry took the man’s hand. It was very firm. A loud coughing erupted from behind him, and he moved out of the way. “Terribly sorry my dear, where are my manners? Harry, this is my wife Melissa.”

“It’s wonderful to meet you Harry.” Her voice was a little high-pitched, but friendly and inviting. They shook hands, and all three of them focused their attentions on Hermione.

She smiled at her parents, who returned the gesture. Some endearing comments passed between them, which made Harry ache for a family of his own. Hermione excused herself from the conversation by saying she needed some rest, and the three visitors retreated respectfully. “So Harry, I was hoping you could tell us what happened. I’m afraid Hermione has been rather tight-lipped about it.” Jason asked Harry in a low voice.

Harry spared a quick glance at his friend’s sleeping form. “Mr Granger, I’d be lying if I said this was really my place to tell you. However I feel you have the right to know. Therefore I do not want you to take this as an attempt to avoid the question, but I think we should continue this conversation in the kitchen.” Jason followed the teen’s eyes and nodded. The two of them departed, leaving Melissa to stand guard.

The kitchen was occupied by Mad-Eye and Remus. Any other Order members in the house, if there were any besides Aleksandr, were evidently scattered in other areas. Jason initially protested their presences, but acquiesced upon learning that they were also witnesses. Harry found himself launching into a complete retelling of the battle, starting with breaking into Umbridge’s office. Hermione’s father did not utter a word during the story, but his face was growing steadily more stony.

When Harry had finished, Jason took a deep breath. “I see. It seems that these kinds of things are almost commonplace at Hogwarts.” Harry nodded, but it didn’t seem to improve the older man’s mood. He reached a hand up and massaged his forehead. He looked very old. “I don’t want to do this, but I cannot, in good conscience, continue to expose my daughter to this level of danger. First thing tomorrow morning I am contacting Professor Dumbledore, and I am withdrawing Hermione from school.”

Harry could do little but make protesting noises, so Remus stepped in. “Mr Granger, I understand your decision fully, but you have to expect Hogwarts students to obtain a few injuries. We provide access to potentially fatal methodologies to eleven year old children, and then cram them into one building with instructions to use these methods.” He explained carefully. “You’re going to get some accidents, no matter how hard you try and protect them.”

Jason shook his head. “A certain level yes, but since starting my daughter has been exposed to no less than six potentially fatal situations. As a father, it is against every moral fibre in my body to allow it to continue.”

Mad-Eye sighed. “Taking her out would be even more dangerous.” He told the man shortly. At his confused expression, the ex-Auror elaborated. “Your daughter is both muggleborn and a close friend of Harry Potter. Either one of those is enough to make her an instant Death Eater target, but with both…” he shook his head. “At least at Hogwarts she has the protection of some of the most highly skilled wizards and witches in the world, not to mention the guard of Order members we’re arranging.”

“Besides, I find it unlikely that Harry is going to just lie down and let Hermione be hurt again. He is rather powerful you know.” Remus interjected, sounding for all the world like a proud father.

Jason would not be swayed, so Mad-Eye pulled a small envelope out of his coat. “Take a look at these then. They’re pictures from the houses of muggles who had been targeted by Death Eaters.” He tossed the envelope across the table. Jason looked at them, and his eyes grew wide. He looked as though he was going to be sick, any desire Harry had to see the pictures evaporated instantly.

After returning the envelope, and taking a few heavy swallows, he finally spoke. “I…see. Maybe…maybe I was a little too hasty in my decision.” Harry shot Remus and Mad-Eye a grateful look. One, but not the other, returned it. “However, I do want to remain here with my wife. It’s been a long time since we spent a summer together as a family.” Remus nodded sympathetically. Mad-Eye just looked distant, almost sad.

***

The days passed. Madame Pomfrey released Hermione from the makeshift hospital, with strict instructions to avoid strenuous activity. She had, of course, immediately barricaded herself in Grimmauld place’s library and refused to come out, even for meals. Harry found himself leaving a plate in front of the door three times a day, much to everyone else’s amusement. It was always empty by the next meal.

For such a large house, it was fairly scarcely populated. Besides Harry and the Grangers there were only three Order members full-time, Mad-Eye, Remus, and Aleksandr, and Kreacher. The Russian, who Harry found out was a former mercenary, rarely left his side but said little. Mad-Eye was almost never seen, seemingly content to clomp around forever checking the security wards. With Hermione in her own little world, and her parents simply learning as much as they could about magic, Harry spent a lot of time talking to Remus.

From him he learned that the Weasleys had transformed the Burrow into a refugee camp, and the other Order members were guarding sensitive individuals in pairs. In fact, he revealed, the only reason there were three of them at Grimmauld was because Remus lived there. Harry asked him why one afternoon.

Remus took a bite of the pasta that had been lunch, and chewed on it thoughtfully. “You aren’t going to like this, but I’m afraid there’s no easy way to say it.” He sighed, and Harry was intrigued. “Dolores Umbridge is still very much loose, and wreaking havoc as usual.” Harry felt his hands balling into fists reflexively, but Remus steadied him. “She isn’t here now, so save your revenge for another time. Anyway, she’s stepped up her Anti-Werewolf Legislation. Using Voldemort’s apparent recruitment of Fenrir Greyback as an excuse, she’s made lycanthrope registration mandatory. ‘Any unregistered werewolves will be killed on sight blah blah blah, etcetera etcetera.’” He spread his hands in a helpless gesture. “So here I am, even poorer than usual and reduced to living in the ancestral home of my old friend’s blood purity obsessed family.” He chuckled cynically at the irony.

Harry sympathized, but he really had no idea what his friend was going through. Not wanting to intrude on anything, he excused himself gently on the excuse of trying to get Hermione to eat something. He loaded up a plate and left quickly. Knocking on the door of the library out of sheer habit, imagine his surprise when it opened and an arm pulled him inside.

Stacks of books almost as tall as Harry himself surrounded one table in the middle of the room. One particularly thick tome lay open on it. Hermione, pale face and dark circles under her eyes making her look like a raccoon, was jabbering excitedly at him. She was speaking so fast that he had to interrupt her and ask her to slow down before he understood anything she was telling him.

“Harry! I think Sirius is alive, and I know how to get him back!” That got Harry’s attention instantly. He asked her how, and she pointed at the tome. “I found the veil in an old book on ancient magical artefacts. Apparently it’s a portal to another plane of existence, where time does not exist. Simply put, he is in a form of limbo.” She was very excited at this, but Harry didn’t quite get it. He glanced at the open book; the page was covered in equations, written with number sets he had never heard of.

“Okay, so that explain where he is. Now how do we get him out?” he asked sardonically. That was kind of the big question he needed answered, but he had no doubt that Hermione Granger could have found an answer.

Which she had. She flipped several pages ahead in her tome and indicated a particular passage. It was describing a ritual to bring an entity into the physical plane. He noted the characteristic pentacle, one person with a bond to the subject on each point, and a human sacrifice. He read that line again. “Human sacrifice?” he asked disbelievingly.

Hermione nodded solemnly. “That plane and ours are in a symbiotic relationship; what happens to one will invariably affect the other. The status quo was achieved centuries ago, when the veil fell into disuse. Whatever it was used for is something I don’t really want to know, but the bottom line is that we can’t take something from it without giving something in return.” It made sense, even if he didn’t like the idea.

He looked at Hermione, her face flushed and slightly out of breath from her explanation. Her hair was in even more disarray than usual and, despite her pale complexion, found himself attracted to her, despite everything he had done to stop it. Instinctually he felt himself leaning in. Before he completely lost control he was able to say a single word: “Sorry.” Her expression of wide-eyed shock was lost to him as he claimed her mouth with his.

The action must have shocked Hermione beyond belief, but she did not pull away. Instead she responded with equal fervour, and what could have been a simple mistake between friends escalated into a soul-searingly passionate bout of tongue wrestling between two young people whose relationship was rapidly changing for the better. Neither teen was in any amount of control of their bodily functions at this point, so Harry’s hands could be excused for migrating from caressing the back of Hermione’s head to kneading her breasts through her shirt. Hermione moaned into Harry’s mouth, and responded by dropping her own hands south to cup his ass. The mutual groping session lasted for quite some time, until they eventually pulled apart.

She looked sad, and it wounded him deeply. “Don’t start what you can’t finish.” She told him sadly. At his curious look, she continued. “You kissed me because I’m the only one available to you, it’s perfectly natural. I just…I just don’t think I’ll be able to handle it if we go too far, and you go back to the kinds of girls you deserve.” She turned away, not wanting to let him see her cry.

He placed a hand on her shoulder. She tried to escape it, but his grip was too tight. “There is only one girl I even come close to deserving.” He told her quietly. She turned back to him, exposing her tear-streaked face, and he engaged her in another indescribable kiss before she could respond.

It was many hours later that they finally emerged, rumpled, but very happy.

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The first chapter of what promises to be a long and intricate fic. Anyone doubting me should check out PJ’s challenge, linked to above.

Unlike most of my other fics, which are written in rotation, this one will likely not be updated with even the barest semblance of regularity. It is really more of an experiment in my writing style. In my other work, I try to shape my muse around the current work in the sequence. Most times it cooperates, but I am on occasion left with nothing. Therefore I am trying this one in a different style, one I can pick at as inspiration strikes me. We’ll see how it goes. Perhaps, as some of my other work wraps itself up, I will begin to work on this more steadily.

Also: since Harry85’s response to this very challenge is up at the same time (a fine story, and you should check it out), and I wish to avoid any plagiarism occurring by my muse feeding me things I read in it, I would greatly appreciate if people could point out any overt similarities between our stories. Some things will be inevitable, since we are responding to the same challenge, but I’d appreciate the help all the same.