Chapter Thirty-Two: Hunted
The gears slowly began to click into place within Ron's brain. He had been left mesmerized, befuddled, just like
everyone else had at the performance they had all just witnessed. Harry was here. He'd just stepped
forward. The one in the golden mask was Harry - had to be. 'Hermione must have just figured it out, he
reasoned, because she tore off like a bat out of hell in his wake. Ron wasn't going to miss this. He followed
her.
Where she thought she was going, Ron wasn't sure, but she sure was moving with a purpose. Hermione burst through the doors of the Great Hall, only to make a beeline for the doors that led out of the castle. Harry was no where in sight.
"Hermione, wait!" he called after her, but she was already too far ahead, and she did not turn back.
Hermione sprinted, losing her fairy wings of her costume in the process, all the way down to the winged-boar gates. His long legs were gaining on her, but just as he reached the gates himself, he heard the tell-tale pop of apparation, and the brown haired witch disappeared right before his eyes.
"Dammit, Hermione!" Ron skid to a stop in the exact place he had witnessed her vanish, bending his hands down onto his knees as he huffed for air. "Where're you off to? Harry's here..." he panted to himself.
The events of the previous night started catching up to him. He'd meant to settle things with Hermione first thing today, to figure out what in the hell was going on, what had happened last night in the library that had shaken her so, but she'd dubiously avoided him all day long. That wasn't to say that he'd not been distracted by all the excitement of Halloween and the events and such taking place. 'I'm such a git!'
And then there was Harry... or whatever he'd witnessed last night in the Quidditch pitch. He didn't know what to make of it, but one thing he was sure of, was that Harry had indeed come back to Hogwarts, and he was no longer just the same ol' Harry. 'What is going on?!'
"Ron?" a familiar female voice called out to him with surprise. Surprised himself, Ron jumped upright, peering through the darkness for its source. "Ron!" she repeated, more forcefully, drawing his gaze to an upper balcony of Rosmerta's Three Broomsticks.
She was perhaps the last person he'd expect to find here. "Ginger?" he questioned with doubt, blinking several times to clear his eyes.
"Oh Ron, please wait, stay there!" she pleaded with him, quite desperately.
"Er, okay..?" Ron was thoroughly confused. Too much was going on for his brain to keep up. With his assurance, Ginger turned and whisked back away into her suite.
He'd shared something special with Ginger, something he'd not soon forget, if ever, but upon Hermione's return, Ron had felt ashamed of himself. Ginger had been more than willing to see him again, writing to him often, but then with Harry's disappearance... he'd sort of written her off.
Only a few moments later, Ginger came out the front of the pub, hooded within a brown cloak, half-sprinting, half-skipping over to Ron. She crushed herself against him when she finally reached him, wrapping her arms about him tightly.
"Oh Ron, I've missed you so..." she sounded on the verge of tears.
"Er, I've..." he started awkwardly, unsure of himself as he lamely wrapped his own arms back around her, but then it hit him. The scent of her aroma invaded his his nostrils. The glimmering of her red hair in the moon's light beneath her cloak re-lit that fire he'd felt for her from before. Her warm body pressed up against his brought back all too real memories of the intoxicating times he'd spent with her. "Ginger..." Ron murmured more passionately as his hand began to stroke idly across her back.
"Ron," she suddenly leaned back in his arms, her blue eyes searching up into his own. "Forgive me for coming here, but I... I tried to write... I've..."
Ron's cheeks reddened with embarrassment. He'd received her letters, he'd even drafted two or three responses of his own, but he'd always failed to send them off, being distracted by this or that. Truth be told, he was afraid to re-spark that flame. What he'd felt for her in their short time together...
He and Hermione had yet to have a proper conversation on where their relationship stood, or perhaps now more appropriately, where it didn't stand. Both of them kicked that can down the road, but he'd always felt devious for his behavior, like he'd committed an affair, and he'd likewise ignored things with Ginger - kicking that can just the same.
"What are you doing here?" Ron asked, his tone sounding a little too accusatory.
"I..." Ginger stumbled, a bit ashamed with herself. "I was hoping you would come to Hogsmeade for the holiday, but I didn't see you..." she turned her gaze from him to look off into the distance. "I... I was going to write you again tomorrow, but then... here you are..."
"Here I am," Ron said with a bit more gusto, tugging her waist close to his, trying to garner her attention back to him once more, longing for it...
"Ron..." her voice was low, nothing more than a breath. "I... I've done something terrible," a tear peeled down her tender cheek. "There is something I need to tell you about..."
. . . .
Hermione arrived on the edge of the front steps of Grimmauld with a loud pop. She spun on a dime, one hand immediately reaching for the knob of the front door, the other clenching at her wand. She had it turned, the door creaking open, but then... she stopped. Slowly, she turned back around.
Her gaze was drawn to the street and wooded park beyond, but there was nothing there to see. Her eyes lifted to the invisible shield of numerous wards encompassing the old mansion with an odd curiosity, as if indeed she could see them.
She couldn't, of course, but there was something... it was more like she could feel it. Long, dark tendrils reaching out from some unknown source, traipsing their way along the wards, fingering them, testing them for some hint of weakness. Growing uneasy, Hermione spared one last glance around, seeing nothing, before she headed inside.
There was nothing. Nothing but books, upon books, upon books, where ever she turned. Books she felt as though she could lose herself in for years, but now was not the time. She went down first, through the kitchen to stand upon those wooden stairs leading to the basement. All was still and quiet.
She wound her way to the top most floor, checking empty room after empty room until she arrived at the attic. It was most unusual, certainly nothing she would have expected. She walked around the makeshift bed, consisting of a thin mattress and quilt, as she examined what appeared to be some kind of training room. Nothing here either. Kreacher was no where to be found, much less the raven haired boy. The house looked to have been deserted for some time now.
She was just about to give up and head back out when something caught her eye. There was movement...
Hermione turned back. It took her a moment to locate the source. It was a photo set upon the ground beside the make-shift bed. Hermione approached it, and bent down to take it up. It was one of her, Ron, and Harry. She knew the memory well. It had been taken just after Harry had defeated the Hungarian Horntail during the Triwizard Tournament, and he and Ron had just made amends. Studying Harry's face as she held up the photo, she could not remember ever have seeing him smile so brightly. It touched a special, deep place in her heart.
Harry, where are you?
. . . .
Harry felt a strong pang of guilt and remembrance as he followed Kreig up into the Astronomy Tower. This had been the
place where everything had started to unrave beforel. Dumbledore...
With a flick of his wand, Kreig uncovered a small wooden table with an intricately designed device set atop it. It was not exact, but looked to Harry much like that of a Pensieve.
"Memories?" Harry asked confused as Kreig took out a small, corked vial with a swirling, almost gaseous liquid within.
"Not exactly," a corner of Kreig's mouth pricked with amusement as he undid the cork and summoned out the substance. "It's a Signum. A magical signature, to be exact."
"A signature?" Harry was no closer to understanding.
"Yes," Kreig said solemnly, while carefully guiding the now free and swirling mass towards the Pensieve looking device. "Antonin Dolohov's, taken from him following his arrest during the First War."
"I've never heard of such a thing..." Harry said with a hint of bewilderment.
"As you are a student," Kreig's eyes lifted tauntingly towards Harry's, "now you have learned."
"And the Pensieve?"
"Not a Pensieve," Kreig corrected him. "An Invesio. It will allow you to recognize Dolohov's signature more clearly."
"And why would I want to do that?"
"Hmm..." Kreig gave a curt laugh. "To find him of course. Dolohov is one of the most wanted men in all of Britain. It's been six months since the final battle, and still he has been able to avoid the Aurors. That ends tonight."
Harry studied his Defense Against the Dark Arts professor for a moment. "If we've had his signature this whole time, why haven't the Aurors used it to find him?"
"Because none of them are Harry Potter," Kreig said this as if it were obvious, but seeing Harry's doubt, he went on. "Dolohov has gone deep, out of Britain in all likelihood. This is no easy feat, Harry. We will see if you are up to the task," he finished with a challenge.
Harry gave a terse nod, following Kreig over as he lowered the captured mist into the pool of the Invesio.
"Go ahead," Kreig gestured. "Just as you would otherwise with a Pensieve."
Harry used his wand to stir the two substances below. As they swirled together, the faint visage of a Death Eater he knew well, and had met on the battle field many times before, appeared below.
Harry's jaw ground together as he peered down into those dark eyes. He'd had the chance to end him almost from the start, in Tottenham Court that very first night on the run, but he was too weak then. How many had Dolohov killed since then? Remus... forgive me. Harry gripped the edges of the bowl with tight, strained knuckles as he pressed his face within. He would not make that same mistake again.
It all hit him at once, like a vacuum sucking it all in. That dark laugh. That pale skin. Those callous, murderous eyes. Hate. Detest. Darkness. Murder. All seemed to swell up into Harry's mind as if he were inside that of the Death Eater's himself. Harry suddenly lurched back, toppling right over onto his arse while gasping for air.
"You get it?" Kreig asked sternly, while offering Harry a hand. Harry's eyes said it all. He had it.
"What now?"
"We meditate."
. . . .
Harry and Kreig sat across from one another, legs folded beneath them, hands held motionless at their knees, eyes closed. Neither had budged an inch since they had settled into this position almost three hours ago now.
Harry's eyes began to twitch behind closed lids. Kreig's shot open, a broad smile curling across his lips. Without making a sound, he unfurled his cramped legs and moved to kneel behind Harry, placing a gentle hand upon his student's shoulder.
Shacklebolt, no doubt, would consider this far too dangerous, a foolish decision on his part, but Kreig was not concerned. Performed by any other, he would in all likelihood be splinched in half in the process, but this was not any other. He'd yet to meet another like Harry Potter, and he knew he never would again in his life time. He would be accompanying him to where ever it was that the Invesio led.
It started with a gentle rumble. Dust was stirred from between the grout of the brick floor. And then came the suction, strong and absolute, and with an earsplitting POP! the Astronomy Tower was left deserted and empty.
"Hughh!" Harry sucked in a deep, gasping breath as his legs fell below him and he stumbled forward, but Kreig caught him and stood him back up right.
"What... where are we?!" Harry grimaced, clenching at his splitting head.
"We've apparated - or close enough," Kreig looked around curiously. "By all appearances, it seems to be that we are now in Russia," he recognized the language upon the signs of a shop down the road, and upon those of the pot-marked streets' intersection.
"Russia?!" Harry glanced to his teacher incredulously. "But... how?"
"You brought us here, Harry."
"Apparated? Impossible..."
"And yet here we are," Kreig's eyes shown a touch of admiration, though he would never admit such a thing.
"But... won't they know we're here?" he spoke of the Russians. Kreig merely shrugged.
"We'll be long gone before they're able to pin point the intrusion. Russia is a big country," Kreig took a couple of steps about, surveying the run-down neighborhood. It looked like a ghetto. "In there, I presume?" Kreig brought them back to the matter at hand, gesturing towards a small, shoddy house before them.
Harry focused on it for another moment. Two stories, the walls and roof looked like they had been put together piecemeal, and reminded him very much of the Burrow back home, of a family he hadn't seen in quite some time... A family who had been left scarred by this very man inside. To add to his list of atrocities, this man had also killed Fabian and Gideon Prewitt, brothers of Molly Weasley, uncles of Ron and Ginny.
"Yes," Harry's voice came low and menacingly. He took a purposeful step towards that house, but Kreig stopped him, grabbing him by his arm.
"Now is not the time to lose your cool, Harry. Remember your training. It is what will keep you alive, and see justice be done."
Harry grimaced, eager to go charging in and to bring that whole damn house down. But he knew Kreig was right. Taking a deep, calming breath, Harry closed his eyes and leaned his head back as he focused.
"How many are inside?" Kreig asked.
"Two," Harry responded without breaking his concentration.
"And where are they precisely?"
There was a short pause. "They are separate. One on the first floor. Dolohov on the second."
"Good," Kreig brought him out of it. "Now then, what is next?"
Harry thought for a moment, before aiming his wand at the house. First things first, he cast a wide disapparating jinx about the house, followed by an alarm that would sound should someone attempt to sneak past its barrier. Lastly, he gently sealed each of the shutters about the windows of the house. There would be no easy escape for Dolohov.
"A Disillusionment Charm and we'll be ready," Krieg said as he cast his own over himself, vanishing with its slow trickle right before Harry's eyes.
Harry paused a moment. "No," he finally said. "I want him to see me coming. I want to see that look in his eyes," Harry chewed through clenched jaws. Kreig frowned at this, but of course, Harry could not see it.
"Very well then, I will cover the back," Kreig said. "The floor is all yours, Mr. Potter."
Harry stood facing the house fully, his wand gripped tightly in hand. It was time for Dolohov to pay his debts.
. . . .
Hermione stepped back out onto those narrow steps of Grimmauld's entry with a heavy burden worn across her shoulders. Someone was looking for Harry. They'd found him before, in Australia, somehow taking him to India where that unspeakable horror was dealt upon him. They'd followed him all the way back to Great Britain, where they had found her at Hogwarts, and they had pulled from her the last memory she had of his location.
But Harry was no longer here. Had they already gotten him? Or had Harry simply left?
"Where are you Harry?" she breathed, letting the most obvious clue fleet before her face - that of a young man in the golden mask. She was just about to twist, to apparate and return back to Hogsmeade and on to Hogwarts when a terrible yelping erupted just down the street.
It was pathetic, whimpering, blood chilling. Like the shriek of a helpless infant being cruelfully tortured. Its pleas begged for help, begged for mercy, begged for death to come and end the pain.
It was by impulse that she stepped down into the street, unable to ignore whatever it was. Her eyes pierced down the lane, wand in hand. Some small form, making the terrible noise, was flopping violently about on its side. Hermione's feet carried her on, involuntarily towards it. The first few steps were slow and cautious, but as she drew nearer, as its pleas pelting her ears, her pace quickened.
The first thing she noticed was that it was a stray dog. It was practically convulsing upon the pavement, wracked with pain. Hermione started to sprint before she came to screeching stop, only feet away.
The poor dog had countless cuts and lacerations running up and down its body. It was laying in a pool of its own blood. Her eyes followed from a barbed-wire wrapped heinously around its neck, to a nearby tree where it was tied.
"Who could do such a thing?!" Hermione gasped, before slashing her wand through the air to sever the wire. She dropped down on her knees beside the dog. Its breath was labored,clinging to its last bit of life.
"Don't worry, girl, I'm going to help you!" Hermione stroke her palm over the dog's whimpering head, putting it to ease. Its brown eyes stared up into hers, imploringly.
Wielding her wand like a knife, Hermione carefully ran the tip of it below the barbed collar, before pulling it back and cutting it free. Below was a gruesome sight of raw flesh and blood.
"You poor thing!" Hermione's eyes trailed over the dog, accounting for its most serious wounds. She then promptly went to work, healing and closing them as best she could.
She was so engrossed in her efforts, she never saw the spell coming. A quick streak of red, and Hermione was blown right over the dog, collapsing in a heap on its far side. The dog tried to move, to crawl towards the girl that had just saved its life, but another flash of green sent it crumbling back to the ground. The street was now quiet, except for the nearing echo of three sets of footsteps.
"You, get the girl," a voice, far too deep and raspy for that of a young child, commanded the man on her left. "You," she spoke to the one on the right. "Remove the beast and wire. Clear any evidence of our being here."
"Yes, ma'am!" Rookwood moved to take the dog and vanish the wire and blood, as Lestrange retrieved the unconscious form of Hermione Granger.
. . . .
Harry stood with his nose inches from the door. By magic, the lock was unsealed, and the door knob turned. The rusted hinges were denied their creak as Harry pushed the door open, stepping across the threshold.
The house was old and downtrodden. Ancient portraits, strung with cobwebs, decorated the rotting planks of the wall. Worn and dust cloaked furniture sat atop threadbare rugs. All was dark and quiet except for the dim light, and clanking of pots and pans issuing from down a narrow hall leading to the kitchen. A non-verbal Silencio padded his footfalls as he stalked his way there.
Harry came up short at the entrance to the kitchen. Busying herself at the sink was an elderly woman, easily over a hundred years old, her bleach white hair balding atop her head, her back crooked and slumped, her skin wrinkled and drooping from her frail bones.
"Вы пришли на мой дорогой Антонин?" her voice scratched, though she did not look up from her dishes, nor did she make any other sign that she had seen or heard Harry approach. She spoke in Russian, but Harry did not have to understand her words, for he was in her mind and could see their meaning. "You have come for my dear Antonin?"
"I have," Harry, for some odd reason, felt compelled to answer her.
"Oh," she sighed deeply, stopping what she was doing, though she did not look up nor turn around. "He was such a good boy in his younger years, so much potential. I told them, his parents, not to take him to England, that our Mother Russia was his home, but alas, they would not listen to me," the older woman's shoulders managed to slump even further.
"It killed them - to see what their son had become. Put them in an early grave. Then... I warned him not to come back here, that you would come for him. But, that stubborn boy, he told me he would die here on Russian soil. That is good enough for me. You will find him upstairs," the old woman finished her diatribe, returning to her dishes. Not another word was offered.
Harry found himself stricken for a moment. What was this? He lifted his wand, aiming it at the tired woman's back, intent on neutralizing her... but he couldn't. As silent as a shadow, Harry left her, disappearing from the kitchen's entrance to find the stairs.
. . . .
Antonin Dolohov was out on the second floor balcony, enjoying himself a cigar and the finest glass of vodka he'd managed to get his hands on. He offered only a momentary glance back at the black robed wizard as he stepped through the open double doors.
"So the Boy-Who-Lived has come for me at long last?!" Dolohov spoke to the night's sky. His remark was met with silence. "I'm not going back," he finally stated.
"That is not up to you, Dolohov," Harry spoke low, threateningly. Dolohov only laughed, taking one last long drag from his cigar, chasing the smoke with the rest of his vodka. He then cast both the stub of the cigar and the glass aside as he leaned out over the balcony, taking in a deep breath of air.
"You did not harm my grandmama, did you?" Dolohov showed his only hint of fear. "She..."
"No," Harry said simply, and he witnessed Dolohov visibly relax with the answer.
"You've done well, Potter. Killed the Dark Lord..." he chuckled lightly, with a touch of madness. "But not well enough. You've come for the wrong Death Eater!" Dolohov then whirled around brandishing his wand.
Harry flourished his own, producing a powerful shield, but it was all for naught. There was a green flash, but Dolohov's wand was not aimed for Harry, but directly against his own chest. Dolohov was cast backwards from his own spell, hitting the railing before his lifeless body crumbled to the ground.
Harry was left dumbfounded, his eyes widened at what he had just seen. There was a whisp of smoke, and then Kreig was there, looking frantically from Harry, then down to the fallen Death Eater.
"What happened?!" Kreig demanded, kneeling down to check Dolohov's pulse.
"He..." Harry stumbled. "He killed himself." Kreig grimaced.
"Come on, lets get out of here," Kreig produced their Port Key, before taking hold of the dead Dolohov's wrist. Harry placed his own hand on the Port Key, just as it turned blue, sucking them away.