(A/N: This chapter breaks some of the Laws of Paracelsus, or at least my usual story-telling patterns. First, it picks up immediately where the last chapter left off, which I don't tend to do much. Second, it's a shorter chapter than my usual standards - but attaching it to the next chapter would have made the latter a longer chapter than my usual standards. My thanks to my beta, MirielleGrey, for her review and suggestions.
Remember, boys and girls, a computer without a password is like a window into your life. I borrowed this chapter's title from the works of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. Oh, and if you look up the quote on the plinth, I feel sure you'll recognize it.)
(Disclaimer: Despite my repeated use of the Authoritatem Tranferro charm, the Potterverse still belongs to Jo Rowling.)
*
"Coming Back Late"
by Paracelsus
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VI: The Game Is Afoot
*
Ridiculous, Hermione told herself sternly. Out of the question. Not possible. One of those crazy notions that come in the middle of the night. She clenched a fist and pummeled it repeatedly into the mattress next to her.
Harry is dead. I gave the eulogy at his funeral! He can't be alive! And if he were alive, he wouldn't have needed to hide! He'd have been hailed as a hero!
Which, declared a second voice in her mind, might well have been sufficient reason for him to leave. He'd always hated his fame.
Hermione shook her head angrily, willing the second voice to be silent, and tried to return to her previous logical process. Well, it does appear that Ted is protecting Clayman the same way Harry protected Sirius. But there are other reasons, other possible relationships, besides godfather and godson. It doesn't mean Jacob Clayman -
"Jacob" and "James" are the same name in different languages, objected the second voice again. A potter is a man who works in clay.
That's my point! If Harry were alive, and he were in hiding, he wouldn't choose such an obvious alias!
Given that he once chose "Vernon Dudley" as an alias? Sure he would.
But he would have let us know he was alive! If he contacted Teddy Lupin, he would certainly have contacted me!
Unless he had no choice.
Stop it! STOP IT!
Hermione swung her legs out of bed, startling Bottlebrush, and seized random bits of clothing from her dresser. "I'll show you," she said aloud. "I'll prove it to you - I'll prove he's dead. Then you'll believe me…" She froze in mid-motion, then continued to dress while muttering, "I'm talking to myself. I'm having an argument with myself. Oh, Merlin, this can't be good…"
*
Her sudden Apparation in the atrium at the Ministry of Magic would have caused quite a stir, if anyone human had been there to see it at that hour. Hermione had been in too much haste (or perhaps not awake enough) to coordinate her outfit, and her morning hair had always been dreadful - as a result, she looked rather like a younger version of Mrs. Figg.
As it was, she did startle three or four house-elves who were giving the Harry Potter Memorial a thorough polishing. No wonder it always looks so gaudy, Hermione thought grumpily as the house-elves frantically disappeared, they probably clean the damn thing every night.
For the first time in many years, she allowed herself to take a good, long look at the Memorial. The larger-than-lifesize bronze statue of Harry gazed at some faraway horizon; by its pose, it seemed to be taking a first step towards that distant destination. It stood atop a plinth of smooth black stone, with a few words carved thereon.
IN MEMORIAM: Harry James Potter. Born 31 July 1980. Died 2 May 1998. John XV:13.
No mention of the titles Harry had hated: The Boy Who Lived, The Chosen One, blah blah blah. Just a simple elegant epitaph… Hermione had seen to that.
She turned her attention to the glass case next to the statue, containing relics of Harry's life, all neatly labeled. His Quidditch robe, with "Potter" emblazoned on its back; his copy of Scamander's Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them, with Harry's "marginal notes"; photographs taken from the album Hagrid had given him.
And his wand, snapped in two - by her, accidentally, but still by her - with the pieces set end to end.
If Harry were alive, he'd be wandless, Hermione thought to herself. He wouldn't be able to perform the level of magic that this Jacob Clayman seems capable of. And that is Harry's wand, I'd recognize it anywhere.
For good measure, she raised her own wand and pointed it at the case. "Specialis Revelio," she commanded. Harry's wand shimmered momentarily, then again lay motionless in the case, unchanged.
That settles it. If there were any other magic on those wand fragments, the Revelaspell would have shown it. Hermione started to turn away from the case, then paused.
But if the Revelaspell had found nothing, she reluctantly forced herself to admit, I wouldn't have seen any change.
Her wand felt like lead as she raised it to the case again. The words had to be forced from her lips. "Finite Incantatem."
Harry's wand started to Transfigure, a very little bit, then began to revert to its previous form.
"NIHILO INCANTATEM!" she screamed at the top of her lungs.
The wand immediately Transfigured, its outlines fluidly altering, turning rougher, darker. It became a dried-up broken branch, ugly and wild. Hermione let her wand fall to her side as she stared at the old branch without blinking, without breathing, trying desperately to make sense of what her eyes were telling her.
*
At approximately the same hour of the morning, Harry Apparated into his inn room, weary but not yet sleepy. He gave a thought to the provender in his icebox, decided he wasn't really hungry, and plopped down onto the bed. He didn't bother to open his Stealth Cloak, or even turn on the lights.
That actually went better than I expected, he thought. The husband could be a jerk, now and then, but the alcohol was his real problem - he was actually a decent enough bloke when he was sober. And his wife really does love him.
I had to make sure he quit drinking, of course… and make it look like it was his own decision. I used the idea of Fred and George's Nausea Nougats, but cast it as a spell inside his mouth. And a permanent Cheering Charm on him as well, which gets triggered every time he's nice to his wife.
He smiled and put his hands behind his head. Satisfaction at having again done service to the community lasted a few minutes, until restlessness began to niggle into his mind.
It's kind of odd that I'm still not sleepy. Mmm, I suppose I could whip up a Dreamless Sleep Potion…
But on the other hand, now would be a convenient time to check again for groundskeeper jobs. Harry dithered for a minute between his vague desire for sleep - or rather, his vague discontent at not having slept - and his eventual need for money. It was the realization that he could, at the same time, check the Web to find people who needed help that got him off the bed and on his way to the inn's front desk.
It's better this way, he reminded himself. If I can help, I should… maybe I can't save the world again, but I can help this little corner of it. Not that anyone will ever know, but it's still the right thing to do. People would be proud, if they knew. Hermione would.
And hard on the heels of that thought, unbidden, came an image of Hermione at Hogwarts, beaming at him for having done something right - he didn't even remember what, it was her smile he recalled. The memory caused him to stop dead in his tracks.
Why was he thinking of Hermione now? He'd avoided any thought of Hermione for… well, it felt like eternity. At first, because it had been painful to remember her; lately, because he felt guilty it hadn't been painful. She seldom came into his thoughts these days… when she did, it was with an undefined regret that soon dissolved, along with her face, into the grey background of his mind.
It doesn't matter, he told himself firmly, before the past could intrude itself again in still greater detail. To all of them - Hermione, yes, and to Ron too - to Luna, Neville, Ginny - to all of them, I'm dead, and I have to stay dead. They'll have gone on with their lives by now. They'll have careers, got married, had kids. The last thing they need is me coming back to haunt them, like a bad rerun of Banquo's ghost.
He nodded, confirming his decision, and continued to the inn's front desk… blithely unaware of how metaphor was gradually becoming reality.
*
Kreacher opened the door of 12 Grimmauld Place a crack, but wouldn't admit Hermione. "Madam Granger-Weasley," he said in his gravelly voice. "My Mistress does not receive visitors at this hour."
"I don't need to see her, Kreacher," said Hermione, now acutely aware of how bizarre she must appear, "but I do need to have a look at Teddy's workshop."
"Kreacher regrets, Madam Granger-Weasley…"
"Why, Hermione!" came a new voice. "This is an unexpected pleasure. Kreacher, show her in." Kreacher immediately opened the door wide and stood at attention as Hermione entered the house. Andromeda Tonks was coming down the stairs, tying the sash of her night-robe around her waist. She and Teddy had moved into Grimmauld Place following the end of the war - after the deaths of her husband and daughter, her old home had too many sad memories.
Andromeda took in Hermione's haphazard appearance with barely a flicker of surprise. "It must be something important, to bring you here so early. Kreacher, prepare coffee for two in the drawing room… unless this is very urgent, Hermione?"
"Could you bring it to Teddy's workshop?" Hermione asked the elf. He nodded courteously and left for the kitchen, without once muttering under his breath, about Mudbloods or anything else. Hermione watched him go, as always amazed at the changes that time - or rather, Dromeda - had wrought.
Harry had willed 12 Grimmauld Place to Teddy, as his godson and the last of the House of Black. Ownership of Kreacher came with the bequest… but if Kreacher had initially been disinclined to serve Harry, as a half-blood, he was tenfold unwilling to serve Teddy Lupin, son of two half-bloods and a werewolf-metamorphmagus hybrid.
It had taken Andromeda Tonks (née Black) just one day to straighten Kreacher out. She had merely declaimed, in icily patrician tones, that the Ancient and Most Noble House of Black expected certain standards of behavior and deportment; that retainers who did not meet those standards brought shame onto the House; and that Kreacher's services would be dispensed with unless he too met them.
Teddy might be Kreacher's owner, but Andromeda was unquestionably his Mistress.
Kreacher stood straighter these days, and no longer mumbled. He kept himself well groomed, and like Canby wore a sleeveless tabard - jet black, with the Black family crest on the left shoulder - which he insisted was livery, never clothes. The style was proving popular, even among free elves.
"Teddy's workshop, you said?" asked Andromeda, concerned now. "He's not in any trouble, is he?"
"No, no," said Hermione hastily. Not yet, anyway, she added silently. "But I have to check something on his computer." Honesty compelled her to add with a sigh, "I suppose it could have waited until morning, but I wouldn't have been able to sleep."
Obligingly, Andromeda led Hermione through the house. Though Grimmauld Place had been cleaned up considerably in the last fifteen years, it would never be a light and airy home; Andromeda had to cast a Lumos spell as they walked down the hallway to the back door.
She stopped Hermione before opening the back door. "Remember," she warned, "no magic." Hermione nodded her understanding and slipped out the back door. She crossed the walled yard to a smaller building standing separate from Grimmauld Place. Originally a carriage house when the Place was built, it was distant enough from the main house to allow the new owner to use it as his workshop - devoted to modern Muggle technology.
At the workshop door, a sign proclaimed "NO WANDS ALLOWED - NO EXCEPTIONS" next to a rack of wand holders. Hermione obediently deposited her wand in one of the holders before opening the door. Inside she found a room similar to Arthur Weasley's shed, but pristinely neat. There were a variety of electronic toys and gadgets, but the centerpiece of the collection was a 48-cm flat screen with a wireless keyboard and mouse. Hermione sat down in front of it and turned on the power.
Oh, Teddy, no password protection? Did you really think no wizard would know how to use your little toy? That was foolish…
She checked his e-mail first: Teddy had a fair number of contacts (Muggle friends, and possibly Muggleborn wizards during the summer), but none of them were Jacob Clayman. No recent messages (even in the Deleted bin) concerning any restaurant; nothing that sounded like a meeting with anyone. If Clayman (i.e., Harry) had contacted Teddy electronically, there was no record of it here.
Next were Teddy's telephone records - Teddy evidently paid his phone and wireless bills online, using a Muggle bank account. (And how could a minor like Teddy set up an account, anyway? she wondered in passing. Another datum.) However, those records didn't list the numbers Teddy had dialed.
Bringing up Teddy's Internet connection, Hermione checked his browser history, bookmarks and favorites. There were two or three music sites, search engine sites, news sites, personal networking sites, a couple of rather, er, graphic sites (she rolled her eyes, but had to remind herself that she wasn't Teddy's guardian)… in short, what might be expected for a fifteen-year-old male. Nothing to suggest any connection to an older wizard, whatever his name.
Grasping at straws, she went to his root directory to see if there were any files or folders he'd deliberately kept out of his personal documents folder. Most were software- or system-oriented, but there was one whose anomalous name stood out: File:GA. Intrigued, she opened it.
File:GA was a folder containing numerous image files and links to websites, two or three dozen at least, going back years. The most recent, posted on the same evening as Teddy and Tori's date at the Idée Fixe, was an image file of an online news account: two children lost in the woods, given up for dead, had been miraculously recovered.
She opened another at random: it told of a family trapped in a burning building, saved by a freak rainstorm.
And here: A young widow with two small children, trying to make ends meet, saving pennies in a jar, discovered a rare coin worth thousands of pounds.
And here: A corporate embezzler, caught when his bank balance suddenly showed a ten million euro overdraft, triggering an audit.
And here, one of the earliest entries: An old woman with a rare blood type, who needed an operation, had three volunteers with the same blood type walk into the hospital and donate, on the same day. None of them could explain what had prompted them to do it. "My guardian angel must have been watching over me," the woman was reported as saying.
Hermione nodded when she read that. File:GA, she thought. File: Guardian Angel. Yeah, right. File: Saving-People-Thing would be more like it.
No jury would convict, based on this evidence - but Hermione considered herself much more intelligent than any jury. She was utterly convinced. Harry was alive and in hiding, and Teddy was protecting him. She was sure of it.
But how to prove it? And, once proven (if proven), how to find him? Did she even want to find him?
The last question answered itself. If Harry was alive, she had to find him. She had to know. After that...
Well, either Harry was dead, or he was going to wish he were.
*
The sky was lightening with the promise of dawn when Hermione finally left the workshop. Kreacher and Andromeda were waiting for her at the back door. Kreacher held a silver tray with a cup of coffee, a cream pitcher and a sugar bowl; Andromeda was sipping daintily from her own cup of coffee. "Did you find everything all right?" she asked.
"Yes, thanks," Hermione replied absently, taking her cup. She remained deep in thought for a few seconds. "Dromeda," she finally said, "are you busy this evening?"
Andromeda raised one eyebrow in inquiry.
"I have two interviews… no, three interviews to conduct," Hermione explained, remembering a remark from a recent owl. "As soon as I can arrange it. And for one of them - the most important one - your presence is required."