Time of the Turning Chapter 19 Part Two
Disclaimer: Same as Part One
Dedication: To Japonicastar. You finished Always around the time I did this here thing. And bow_to_chaos proofread it... Those were the days.
Written: 2007...?
Rating: Darkish.
Genre: Angsty, this one. I *think*. Yeah, it is. I checked.
Type: Novel-length
Title:
Chapter Nineteen - Causality Part One -- Stratagem
The next morning did not bring any improvements with it, starting with the weather. A storm raged outside, the clap of thunder unhelpful as ever to make Harry’s nightmares less vivid. Kept awake half the night brooding, rehashing his misadventures, the storm that unleashed when he had finally managed something more than a doze only worsened matters.
At one point, waking up from a particularly nasty dream with a scream, he fancied he heard an echoing scream coming from outside his room-but that was impossible; he was the only one in that storey.
The lousy night only set the theme for the day, it seemed: Breakfast wasn’t much better, which he suspected had to do with the fact Connor didn’t look much rested at all either, and was in a much similar mood to his; rotten.
Only, Harry had spent half the night brooding himself to frustration, and was in no accommodating mood. Consequently, he had little patience with the glances sent his way, which were starting to feel more like silent challenges than anything.
Challenging back was becoming increasingly tempting, a confrontation harder to avoid.
A letter arrived however, from Gringotts, and soon Headquarters, which for some reason contained more people than Harry remembered hearing come in during the night, was all of a flurry of activity.
The letter, which required the twins’ presence in Diagon Alley the next day to weigh their wands or some such grout, was passed from hand to hand, and hurried plans were made to meet the appointment. A rather sleep-deprived Tonks explained to Harry it had to do with some vaults not needing a key to be opened, but the owner’s wand being used for that purpose. And for this process, the twins had to be present.
The possibility of not taking them to Diagon Alley was briefly discussed, but Bill squashed that one early on.
“You don’t want to stand the goblins up,” he told them. “If they say weigh your wand a certain date, you have to be there. It’s a matter of respect to them, and you know how nasty they can get if they feel they’ve been wronged.”
The prospect of leaving the Black house for a few hours did the trick for the twins, who looked rather cheered up once it was made clear they had to go. Mrs. Weasley then said something about having to buy her kids’ and Harry’s supplies for the upcoming school year, and the twins needed to be fitted for robes as well-all the clothes they possessed were the tatty ones Harry and Ron had discarded over time.
Harry decided it was time to leave them to it, stomping up to his room in a fouler mood than before. While he had had his share of outings and even camping trips over the past couple of weeks, being cooped up in the gloomy old house with nothing but nightmares for company was awful, and though he understood the need for it, that didn’t mean he had to like it-and yes, he was rather jealous over the fact the twins would get to leave Headquarters for a few hours.
Not bothering to be quiet about it, he slammed the door to Sirius’ room shut, throwing himself onto the bed with a huff.
“Oh, if it isn’t the Potter boy,” a mocking voice drawled lazily from the far wall. Harry glared at a hereto empty frame, which was now occupied by none other than Phineas Nigellus.
Figures.
It seemed Dumbledore had returned to his habit of spying on him. Not unexpected, as far as things had gone up until now, but at the moment Harry was not in the mood for anyone, much less being understanding or civil towards anyone.
“Miffed today, are we?”
Least of all Phineas Nigellus, the rotten bastard.
“Get stuffed, you,” Harry snapped.
“Getting smart now, eh? Mind your manners, and who you’re talking to, you little rascal. That good-for-nothing great-great-grandson of mine was just the sa-OY, you little lout!” The last bit of that was muffled, and nothing followed. Who’d have known that to shut Phineas up, all he had to do was turn the frame around?
“I said: get stuffed,” he snarled again, peeved to the extreme. On his way back to bed though, he stubbed his toe, which did nothing to improve his mood.
Hopping on one foot and cursing under his breath didn’t do much to mitigate his frustration, particularly not when he lost his balance and toppled over, out of breath.
“Bloody hell!” he yelled at the empty room, fuming as he raffled himself up, holding on to the wall-
Only to land on the floor again a split second later when the wall gave way.
The oath that was well on its way out of his mouth died before it was uttered; he had been leaning on one of the faded Gryffindor banners permanently stuck to the wall, which was now gone. A gaping hole was there in its stead, stretching into a dark corridor or passage of some sort.
All traces of anger forgotten, Harry sat up again, blinking slowly at the dark gap before him. Stuffy air and some dust motes reached his nose, making it prickle, but he paid it no mind, focusing instead on remembering all Sirius had told him about the house; there was a garden, he’d said, but he’d not seen it since he was twelve-his parents had done something to it, so that whenever he arrived at the house, he could not so much as find the door to it; the windows had been charmed to look outside, yes, but could not be opened, by magic or force; Harry racked his brains, trying to remember. He had not paid too much attention to Sirius’ stories back then, too busy hating the house and its filthy, dinghy feel, to pay him any heed. He could not remember ever hearing a mention of this passage, or where it led to.
He made up his mind, eyes trying to pierce the darkness, ears pricked up for any tell-tale sound coming from within. His wand was out before he knew it, and he was padding cautiously down the passage the next moment, scanning it for dangers in the beam of his wand. There was no sign of any sort of peril whatsoever, just a gaping black hole that smelled of old dust and lack of airing. The floor a few feet inside, though, showed marks in the layers of dust, pawprints… and footprints.
He looked long at them, something tightening in his chest that made him want to turn back and carry on moping. And yet... Sirius had known of this passage. That meant it was safe, wasn’t it?
First good news of the day.
Harry’s scowl faded, a feeling of excitement bubbling up from deep inside him, of the curious, exploring sort he had not felt in a while. He turned back, to trade his slippers for his trainers, and made sure his door was securely locked before stepping into the passage again.
The beam of his wand fell upon smooth stone walls, his footfall muffled as he advanced warily, eyes trying to pierce the pitch blackness ahead.
He walked slowly, yet remained unhindered by obstacles of any sort; there were no spiders the size of plates lurking, no doxies, or boggarts, or anything other than-- crunch.
He'd stepped on something. Lowering the beam of his wand, his eyes fell on a crumpled piece of parchment under his foot, old and faded. Harry picked it up, wiping the dust off it for further examination; it was an envelope, so old he could almost not make out the address. Looking left and right in case some of the house's old monsters came round and feeling guilty for reading Sirius' old post, Harry carefully opened the envelope, taking out a single sheet and smoothing it out to read. It tore at the centre as he unfolded it, brittle after years lying there.
But… Now Harry could not help wondering about it. What was it doing here? Did anyone else know of this passage? Where did it lead to?
He’d find that out, but first things first. He turned his attention to the letter once more.
The writing on it was also faded, written in something of a coppery hue which made it all the harder to read. He squinted, trying to make out the words, but all he could establish at the time, was that the distinctive, flowing handwriting looked rather familiar. While he stood there, trying to remember where he’d seen that sort of handwriting before, he did manage to make out a date-December 19, 1974, which sent his heart racing again; Sirius had been barely 15 when he received it, possibly during the Christmas holidays in his fourth year; it was well likely the letter was sent by his father.
Harry briefly considered turning back to peruse the letter in a better lighting, but a muffled noise of a door closing and footsteps nearby made him forget all about it. He pocketed it, tiptoeing further down the passage, stepping here and there on what felt like paper, but he didn’t give the things littering the floor anything more than passing thought, concentrated instead on where the noises were coming from.
“… do you think?” It was muffled, but gave him a close enough direction to follow. Harry sped up a slight, taking a left turn as the passage split-and suddenly it opened into a niche, where he could see slivers of light shining through a couple of cracks in the wall, near the floor… and hear everything as though he were in the room… Whichever room it was he was listening in to.
“I don’t know.” It was one of the McAlpin twins, Chris. Harry pressed his ear to the wall, hardly daring to breathe. There was the creaking sag of a mattress, and locking and silencing charms were cast. At the door only, because Harry could still hear everything.
“We have to be there, eleven sharp,” Connor said. A second sag of a mattress was heard, followed by a heavy sort of sigh, familiar in itself. Harry decided to stop speculating about why it was familiar, but couldn’t help being intrigued; here were two boys he obviously shared some sort of connection with, Connor most strongly... And they seemed to hate his guts, added to the fact he knew nothing about them.
He was aware that this was a new development, and yet, the demeanour and expressions of the boys were familiar, as if he had seen them before…
Except for the bit where he hadn’t.
Ever.
It was maddening.
“We could use the fresh air,” Chris offered, but he didn’t sound very convinced.
“Aye, we could.” Connor was silent for a moment, then added, “I hate this place. It’s so…”
“Shitty,” Chris finished for him.
“That sums it up nicely.”
“No wonder he went bloody crackers in here. I feel I’ll follow trends soon.” The conversational tone wasn’t lost on Harry, but what they were on about was.
“Who cares about him?” Connor snapped. Harry frowned. “He deserved every bit of what he got.”
“Didn’t.”
“Did.” Connor spat it out, a mouthful of hatred that took Harry aback.
“No, he bloody well didn’t, and you know it.” How Chris could carry on so lightly when Connor was clearly hacked off, Harry didn’t know. He wouldn’t have managed, even if he didn’t have a clue who it was they were arguing about.
“We don’t, that’s for sure.” And thus, the topic changed abruptly, even if Connor’s bitterness hadn’t changed one jot.
“I’ll give you that,” Chris conceded.
“He, though-What the hell?” Connor said, followed by the squeak of the mattress. Harry pressed his ear all the harder against the wall.
“Whatsit?”
“He’s out there.” Connor sounded annoyed.
“Who?”
“Potter.” A cold shiver ran down Harry’s spine. How could he know that? He hadn’t made a single noise.
Or had he?
There was a sound of shuffling, a door unlocking, opening. Harry held his breath, closing his eyes. Quite distinctly, he could see in his mind’s eye, how Connor scanned the empty hallway, then went to check the staircases.
“I don’t get it,” he said upon returning. The door closed again, was locked, the spells placed on it once more. “I could’ve sworn he was right on the other side of this wall.” It came from very close to where Harry was listening, and the small noises that followed were surely caused by Connor running his hands along the wall.
“You really need to sleep more,” Chris said. “It’s getting to you-” It was getting to Harry for sure.
“I’ll do that when we’re out of here.”
“I won’t argue that,” Chris conceded. “And on that note, where are we going next? The Blackpool house is out of the question. Home isn’t an option, either.”
“We’re…” Connor didn’t finish. Chris cut him off.
“We could try going to Hogwarts-”
“Oh yeah, that’s really clever,” Connor said derisively. At least he didn’t limit his sarcasm to him only, Harry noted. The only difference seemed to be that Chris wasn’t moved at all by it. “Why don’t we hand ourselves over to Voldemort while we’re at it? That would save everyone a whole lot of trouble.”
“I didn’t mean it that way, you dobber-But honestly, what options do we have? They did away with the Blackpool house,” Chris argued back. “It was supposed to be impossible to find.”
“Supposed to being the very operative term,” Connor muttered. “There’s still the Welsh house…”
“You haven’t told anyone about it,” Chris said, and there was a definite tone of reproach there. “What if they got there too?”
“They won’t have.” Connor sounded certain.
“How come?”
“Gramps knew the Blackpool house would be taken sooner or later.” A shuffling sound, followed by the rasp of latches being undone, the hollow thud of wood on wood. “He didn’t tell me to go there… He said to go to Wales.”
“He…?” Chris sounded aghast. “You lied to the Professor? Gramps--”
“He knew, Chris.” Connor sounded bitter.
“Connor...” There was a silence, but Harry could feel the tension in the air, the finality of the tone. “What did he tell you, the other day?”
“A load of rubbish,” was the answer. Harry had a flash of a library, pale green eyes boring into his; anger, fear, regret-Knowledge, used as punishment. Or was it as a last resort?
“Don’t give me that hogwash.” Oh look, Chris did have the same explosive temper as his brother. “What happened? After the horses got stolen and the Dementors attacked?”
What? Harry backed away, stunned. He had not given the horses another thought, or indeed cared to tell the boys some of their herd was still alive.
Unbidden, he started rehashing the events in Inverarray, which he had not bothered to pick apart either. In his defence, he was out of it for days, and had not wanted to think of the matter overmuch. Now however, he came to an abrupt realisation: If he’d told the horses to go to their masters, if he’d only known he was so close to where the McAlpins lived, if he’d only realised what it was Voldemort was on about… He could have taken the horses there in time, and nobody would have died.
If only.
Harry didn’t want to listen on, feeling ill to his stomach. Did Connor know of their link? Did he know what Harry had just realised? Was that the reason for his attitude? If so, he had every right-Harry should have done something.
“I… Just drop it, alright? It doesn’t matter what he said, it’s all rubbish anyway.” Maybe he didn’t want to listen, but he could still hear every word.
“Is it?” Chris erupted hotly, Harry heard him get up. "I get it, you don’t want to talk about it, but I need to know! You were holed up there with him for hours, and then the horses bloody vanished-“
“I know,” Connor mumbled.
“Then those Dementors showed up, and-“
“And now everyone is dead.” The tone was final, yet defeated.
“Well I’m not, in case you haven’t bloody noticed, so don’t act like you’ve got to do this by yourself,” Chris snapped. There was no answer, however. “I miss them too,” came next, so softly Harry thought he'd imagined it at first. “And Gramps…”
“Could have gotten all of us out, but didn’t.” Connor’s voice was half a whisper. Harry caught it anyway. “He let himself be killed, Chris. He let it happen. He left us stranded.”
“He didn’t.” Now Chris was snarling, threatening. Harry heard something crack, a result of the anger in the room. “Don’t you dare turn it around on him!”
“It’s the truth. Break as many windows as you want, it won’t change shite. I saw it, as well as you.”
“I saw him fight to protect us! I saw him die so we wouldn't!”
“He knew they were coming beforehand. I was outside with him, we figured it out,” Connor said quietly. “And he chose to stay behind. He left us alone.”
There was no answer.
“I’m sorry.”
Harry decided he’d heard more than enough. While he could not understand all the implications, he knew he had no right to speculate. It didn’t keep him from being intrigued, certainly, but even as the silence in the room stretched, tense and mournful, a part of him knew exactly what was going on; he could feel the pain, the longing, the uncertainty and insecurity crawling under his skin, permeating every thought, mingling with remorse, regret, self-blame and a rather unhealthy dose of anger. This, he knew; the impotence, the what-ifs, the if onlys, the despair and loneliness that gripped you so tightly breathing was made impossible at times. And while this cluster of emotions was also familiar, he could pinpoint it with precision this time; he had felt the same since Sirius died.
He heard them move at last, taking advantage of the small noises in the room -- some of which sounded entirely too much like sobs to be comfortable with -- to steal down the passage, throat tightening the farther he got. The ever-increasing distance did not help ease his mind in any way, nor did the feelings fade at all.
He advanced stealthily, aware, despite how much worse he now felt, of the need for wariness, which didn’t stop him from turning matters over in his head. One more feeling added itself to the mix as the passage slanted downwards, narrowing so there was barely room enough for him to walk through it; a growing need to help the twins, which he attributed to the similarities he sensed there were between them, which he was even now only beginning to understand, amidst the mysteries surrounding the whole matter.
* * *
“What are we going to do?”
Connor shook his head, shrugging. He had not wanted this to happen, not so soon after. But Chris was right, he needed to know, bugger what Gramps had wanted. Connor knew it was unavoidable; he would have had to tell him eventually.
Eventually. Not now, when Chris was barely recovering from his injuries, when he himself wasn’t doing so hot either.
Chris was holding up better than he’d dared to hope, at least for now. The news was devastating, no matter how little Connor had dared to tell him; he’d explained, leaving out every single one of the more upsetting details, providing him with just the bare necessary information, so he could understand why they needed to keep things as secret as possible, for as long as possible.
Potentially heading Voldemort’s hit list was bad enough, though, no matter how much he tried to gloss things over.
Chris didn’t ask for details, but he was devastated by the news all the same. Details, Connor knew, he would have to provide soon enough-but for now, he knew as well as his brother did, that they had to focus on tomorrow, and surviving that trip before they could fancy to plan for anything beyond that.
“What do you reckon?” Chris asked again, reminding him he had yet to provide an answer to that.
“I reckon,” Connor began slowly, “we’ll wait until we’re better-and then try the house in Wales. If it’s taken too, then… Maybe another country. Or something.”
“Won’t we give the Order a chance?”
Connor bit his lip. It was very strange to see Chris this unsure, this forlorn and hopeless… It was rubbing off; Chris was usually the one to keep optimism alive and his head up, no matter what.
Having one’s entire family being murdered in one night because you’re the target, however, could certainly qualify as a worthy reason to lose hope, and feel small and afraid, vulnerable and alone.
“We’ll give them a chance if you'd rather,” Connor offered, in the same quiet tone he’d been using so far. He himself felt the same as Chris did, only he could not allow himself to wallow; being angry over everything made it easier to bear, and he had been entrusted with Chris’ care, he had to focus. There was simply too much at stake for them both to go helpless at the moment.
Connor was aware of the fact that up until now, the Order had provided them with a safe haven of sorts. He might not trust them, but they had been helpful so far, and at the moment the thing he wished most for was to be able to trust them.
That was where they hit a snag.
Trust had become something out of the past, something they couldn’t afford to squander-but he did desperately wish he could. So it was easy to be accommodating for Chris’ wish, logic going out the window in the face of the possibility of not having to worry so much. Of being able to get a restful night.
Chris nodded, heaving a sigh.
“Are we telling them?” he asked the second most important question that had been burning in his head.
“I dunno,” he mumbled hesitantly. “Telling them might be as good as telling the Death Eaters…”
“They might need to know,” was the reply. "Some of them."
“We’ll tell them when they need to know, then.” He hoped that time would never come, busied himself with pouring some bright fuchsia concoction into a glass, offering it to the other boy. “In the meantime, try and get some sleep. It’ll be a long day tomorrow.”
“Potter’s suspicious,” Chris insisted. He’d felt it too, then.
“We’ll deal with him when we have to.”
“Tell him,” Chris reached for the glass, plucking it from Connor’s unmoving grip. “He’s got a right to know what’s up between the two of you-and between all three of us.”
“Wonder how you came to that conclusion,” Connor retorted. So much for letting the other rest. “Maybe you’ve forgotten just how much shite we’re in, because of him?”
“I haven’t,” Chris mumbled, turning the glass round in his hands. “But it feels rather thick, not telling him. He’s all we’ve got, as you said, and--”
“And we’ll deal with him when we need to,” Connor’s voice was tight, yet no less determined. “There’s a reason why we kept out of sight, mate-I’m not binning it just because you feel that sod has a right to anything.”
“I was just saying,” Chris said, sipping the potion and cutting a grimace. “It would be fair.” Connor motioned for him to down the potion, taking the glass back and helping him lie down.
“He doesn’t deserve fair.”
“Maybe not him," Chris conceded. "You do, though.”
* * *
The narrow corridor he was in wound its way left and right, and for a while Harry contented himself with walking, thinking, and trying to tie everything he had learned together, in an attempt to make sense of matters.
As it were, a babble of voices snapped him out of his brooding. Harry stopped short, debating for a moment whether or not to follow; he had heard enough, after all. Dumbledore’s voice inviting people to sit helped him change his mind, though-This, he decided, he had every right to listen in to: The Order’s doings and schemes had to do with him, after all, and there was no other way of hearing any of it. He sped up, not caring too much whether or not he was heard. The passage turned again, and he could see light shining into it in a straight beam, which, upon closer inspection, came from a finger-thick hole at hip level.
Moody was greeting everyone in his usual grouchy manner, which made him fear being caught, for a few moments-the grizzled Ex-Auror’s magical eye was roving all around the room, he saw, as he pressed his eye against the peep-hole, which allowed him to look into the dining room… almost at the level of the ceiling, so he was looking down at the wizards and witches assembled below. For a moment, Moody’s eye roved along the wall, right past Harry. His breath caught.
“All clear,” Moody grunted, nodding at everyone.
He hadn’t seen him.
Or else, he was allowing Harry to stay and listen.
Whichever the case, Harry decided to stay put. Almost every Order member was present, taking their seats around the long dinner table, talking amongst themselves. Without exception, every face showed signs of stress and deep worry. Some looked pinched, and everyone looked tired. Harry couldn’t bring himself to feel for them much.
The meeting began; it wasn’t very enlightening at first, as the matters discussed were not alien to Harry. Healer Tonks told everyone how he and the McAlpin boys were doing, in her usual, snipish manner. Harry couldn’t help but notice, once again, how she openly disliked Dumbledore. It made him smile; she wasn’t fooled by him, then.
She might have been the only one, though. Everyone else hung onto Dumbledore’s every word, and most agreed with him out of formula. The Weasley Twins, Remus, Tonks, and Bill proved themselves the exceptions to the rule,
What followed was a discussion about the McAlpins’ situation-and it was less than hopeful. Other than the news of their health’s steady improvement, everything else ranged from depressing to frustrating. Their grandfather’s body had as yet not been retrieved, and carried on giving the Aurors and Hit Wizards a hard time; the Ministry had taken the will for examination before the twins were to have access to it; Their property in Blackpool had been found destroyed by the Death Eaters, and nobody had been any the wiser it was even ransacked in the first place; and they were due at Gringotts the day after tomorrow.
Mad-Eye was the most preoccupied of them all, which to Harry was an eye-opener in itself; the grim Ex-Auror rarely looked worried. He was used to seeing him snappishly bossing people about, always knowing what to do, in control of things, ahead of them, even. Now, there was none of it; he was earnestly worried, and not merely for the twins’ safety; he expressed his concern over their mental health and well-being enough to make it clear he cared about them, very much.
His so very uncharacteristic fretting and fussing was interrupted, though, as Snape arrived. Sweeping into the room like he usually did the Potions dungeon, the sallow-faced wizard strode straight to an empty seat to Dumbledore’s right, eyeing everyone with a disdainful sneer, which was returned with equally challenging looks from over half those present. It seemed that out of the lot, only a handful were comfortable having Snape around-and the bastard was well aware of it. He was milking it, never losing a chance to rub his position in on the rest.
He didn’t even ask what he’d missed; it was all repeated for his benefit, which Harry saw as an unnecessary attention. His fixed glare was of course, lost on the recipient of it, and sadly, his wishing for a lightning bolt to strike Snape dead as he sat there, acting like he owned the Order, also went unheard. Harry couldn’t remember when his hate for the Potions Master had grown thus great, but it was coursing through him like fire suddenly, his teeth gritted so hard they might chip, and he found himself thinking of spells suitable to cast on Snape before he knew it. He did none of the dreadful things he wanted, though, not stupid enough to blow his cover, and pressed his eye to the peep-hole again, as Dumbledore reached the end of his tale and the Order resumed their discussion of the McAlpin twins’ fate.
The Order discussed what to do with them to the last detail; everyone who could be spared was to be present in Diagon Alley on the appointed date, arriving in pairs from early on-since nine in the morning, to guard the entire area hours before the twins were due there. Bill was to escort them while inside Gringotts, and Mad-Eye, Lupin, Tonks, and Mrs. Weasley would be accompanying them throughout the trip.
And do quite a bit of shopping, too.
The subject of what to do with them in the near future popped up as well, something Snape seemed keen on learning. Moody was against sending them to Hogwarts against their will, most everyone else believed they had not a say in the matter-Dumbledore headed this faction, unsurprisingly.
“They’re not even fifteen, Alastor,” he argued, in an attempt at reasoning with Moody. “They need to finish their education to have a chance at a future, and Hogwarts is where we can keep them most safe.”
“If they don’t want to go, I’m not going to force them,” Moody growled. “Not just because it’s easier for us-they’re loaded with gold, they don’t need an education, and their training so far can show up most of your seventh years. No,” he added, as everyone started voicing their opinions on the matter, and an argument promised to surface. “The only chance at a future they have right now is survival, don’t fool yourselves. We need to figure out what to do with them, taking their opinions into account. If forced to do anything that so much as rubs them wrong, they’ll leave. They’ve been drilled to detect and avoid manipulation, and you’d much sooner catch them dead than locked up. I’m not going to spend ages hunting them down, or trying to regain their trust. I don’t want to have to scrape them off a sidewalk either; Voldemort wants them, I can’t tell you what the reason for this is, only they can. If they even know it, which I have reasons to doubt. They do know, however, that they’re targeted, at least as much as Potter, unless I’m mistaken?”
All eyes turned to Snape, and up from his lofty eavesdropping position, Harry shifted, the better to see. Snape’s face sported the usual inscrutable expression, but his eyes betrayed him. Or maybe it was the angle he was seeing things in. Either way, Snape’s eyes showed he was thinking fast, calculating, assessing.
“He hasn’t mentioned them once,” he said idly.
Lying bastard.
“But I might have some more information later; I have been drawn into the close circle of counsellors, which might yield the information you want.”
What’s that? Harry’s glasses rasped against the peephole, he was pressing his face so hard against it, not wanting to miss a thing.
The information Snape had to offer was pitifully meagre; some hogwash about the top Death Eaters or other, and just one point of interest. The mention of the name Rasmus Thanatovich made Harry snap to attention.
“So the old bastard’s still alive,” Moody growled darkly. “Figures.”
“He has been drafted by the Dark Lord, and yet, won’t take the Mark. Everyone else considers him an external advisor of sorts… And a threat.” That Snape himself was in such a position wasn’t lost on Harry. “He is presently working on several secret projects, to which I have as yet not had access. I shall let you know more as I gather new information.”
All in all, the Order meeting had offered much fodder for thought, but little by way of a solid course of action.
By the time Harry went back to his room, spotting and picking up old postcards, motorbike magazines, newspaper cutouts, torn parts of what turned out to be a motorbike repair manual, Harry had learned that the Dementors had doubled their numbers in the past four months, which some attributed to the ready supply of food they had access to; that Charlie would arrive on the 30th and was to stay behind with Harry while everyone was out in Diagon Alley - as if he needed babysitting, honestly - and that the Hit Wizards had managed to retrieve Rob McFusty’s and his wife’s bodies, which would be delivered to the family tomorrow. The funeral was to take place at the McFusty Dragon Reserve, on the first of August.
Of Harry there had been no mention, save for a comment of McGonagall’s about talking to him. Dumbledore did not seem keen on it, but agreed to do it as soon as he had a chance to. Harry hoped the said chance would be a long time in coming.
The meeting had ended on a daunting note; the Aurors were trying to pinpoint a pattern to the disappearances that had happened of late. Always it had been muggleborns, coming from families that had little to nothing to do with the war; ordinary people, living ordinary lives, save for the constant looming threat of an attack by Death Eaters. Not one had been connected to the Ministry, the Order, or even held a position that would be in any way influential for either side. None had been known to publicly or privately support either of the factions, either. Some, as Tonks had said, had been students, or children due to start Hogwarts this year, or the next.
“It makes no sense,” she had finished.
Hours later, lying in bed after rolling things over for the umpteenth time in his head, Harry decided very little did anymore.
* * *
The following day crawled by as slow and dull as the preceding ones had; Harry had managed only a couple of hours of sleep, constantly plagued by nightmares and old memories, some of which did not even belong to him. He had little energy come morning, and no interest in seeing anyone. He spent the entire morning avoiding everyone, officially locked in his room but exploring the passage he’d discovered instead.
Which led… Outside.
He’d been peering out of a brick wall next to a small side row before he knew it, rain falling on his face as he squinted around. He retreated hastily, fearing he’d triggered some alarm; but as it were, nobody was any the wiser. Had Sirius used this passage often? Who else knew of it?
He now did, at least, and decided to count it amongst the very few pros of the house.
Emerging from Sirius’ room for a short lunch after washing up, Harry soon ended up seeking refuge in the library, where he holed himself up until tea-time: Mrs. Weasley might not be the friendliest of witches of late, but she still made a point of filling him and the twins to the brim at every chance.
The McAlpin twins had been equally reluctant to interact with anyone, but as Harry reached the kitchen, he caught them talking to Remus and Tonks, who had come in from some assignment or other, looking every bit as jaded as the rest of the household.
Harry left them to it, mumbling his short responses to the usual inquiries as to his well-being and things, choosing to focus on picking at his pie without any enthusiasm, but sneaking covert glances at Chris and Connor while ignoring Remus' worried looks; Connor in particular looked under the weather, dark rings under his eyes a silent testimony of less-than-restful sleep. Chris did manage a half-hearted joke or two to Tonks’ comments on her night’s work, but he too, looked nothing like what Andromeda Tonks’ report had sounded the previous evening.
They were healing fast, she said. Doing better than she’d expected.
He wasn’t an expert in magical healing, but it still didn’t look that way to him.
And Harry was increasingly, earnestly worried. After trying to make sense of everything he’d learned the previous night, and unable to shake off the inexplicable craving for closeness with the twins, his prior curiosity had turned into something more of a raving need, to talk to them, to figure out what was going on with them…
To help them.
Which in turn he was trying to shake off; how could he, cock-up extraordinaire, so much as entertain the thought of helping anyone in the present circumstances? He couldn’t even help his own sorry arse, never mind a pair of kids who were, if possible, even worse off than he was and who, by every indication so far, wanted nothing to do with him at all?
The searing in his scar came on suddenly, and while it was unsurprising that it would happen sooner or later, he hadn’t expected it at all. Across the table from him, Connor clutched the table convulsively, staring straight into his eyes.
Harry’s fork fell from his hand with a clatter, and the rest of him followed it to the floor with a gasp that soon became a strangled cry.
Chairs scraped on wood, urgent calls were uttered, but Harry couldn’t hear them, the kitchen dissolving, water-like, into a darker, familiar room.
“Ah, Rasmus. I was wondering when you’d be back.” Harry hissed, his goblet held idly in one white, long-fingered hand, hiding from view his anticipation and impatience over this visit. “What is that you bring me?” He tilted his head the better to see.
“One more for your collection, Lord Voldemort,” came the easy reply, though the child Rasmus had brought in was still struggling. “I came across it along the way here.”
Harry nodded, pleased matters were going so well.
“How many more, my old friend?”
“Seven more,” Rasmus said, handing the bound figure to a Death Eater, who dragged it off. “I trust by the due date, we’ll be covered-as long as Bellatrix stops toying with them. Particularly the younger ones; the way she’s going on about it, they won’t last, and children are hard to come by on a tight schedule.”
“I’ll tell her to lay off,” Harry promised. “But that’s not the reason why you’re here.”
Rasmus graced him with a smirk, assenting with his head. He walked to an armchair next to Harry’s, lowering himself on it.
“The Longbottoms,” he said. “They’re at St. Mungo’s now, at their monthly visit. I am ready to strike as soon as they return-in half an hour.” A frisson of eagerness took hold of Harry-were they there?
“And you believe the targets have contacted them?” he asked. Rasmus shrugged dismissively.
“Whether they have or not, remains to be seen. If they are on their own, sooner or later they’ll contact help-And if said help is unavailable to them, sooner than later they’ll be found. Severus has promised me to let me know at once, should they contact the Order of the Phoenix. So far, he has had nothing to provide.”
“He did not give you any trouble, I trust?”
A thin smile, which betrayed a promise of what would happen, should anyone dare give him any trouble.
“None, my Lord.”
“Very well. What intend you to do at the Longbottoms’ house?”
“Burn it to the ground,” was the rather idle reply. “I am aware it might be a tad trite and hackneyed a strategy,” he admitted, snapping his fingers for some wine. “But its effects on the popular psyche have yet to be topped. The old woman won’t submit to any manner of… negotiation, as we well know. She would rather die than acknowledge your power. Thus she shall get her wish.”
Harry chuckled, nodding his agreement. The Longbottom woman had been an annoyance to him for years. Even the maddening of her son and daughter-in-law had not been enough to quench her. She might not constitute a threat, perhaps, but she certainly was an enemy to his regime. And entirely too old to be allowed to live; the woman was stealing oxygen, for Salazar’s sake.
“I am also wondering what the heir has to offer. Not much, if what I have gathered of the boy is any indication.”
“A true pity. Do you think he’ll submit?”
“I shall find out shortly.”
“If he does, leave him alive,” Harry advised. “I could use one more of the Nine at my side, and the Longbottom vault’s contents as well. They are of pure blood, after all. Can’t kill them off like dogs. That would look bad on our presentation letters.”
“That may be, but their deaths might prove much stronger a message to those daring to rebel against your power. Either way, they shall prove useful.” Ah, Rasmus, finding win-win solutions to everything.
“When are you striking?”
“Within the hour; from what I have learned, they commonly return from St. Mungo’s for dinner,” Rasmus informed, sipping his wine. “I shall surprise them while they eat. I took down the wards this morning after they left, all I lack are some of your minions to do the dirty work.”
Nothing easier to provide.
“You there, come here,” Harry ordered one of his Death Eaters, beckoning him with a flick of his wrist. “Bring me Bellatrix. She has played around in the Pit long enough. And call my loyal Death Eaters to me. They have work to do.”
* * *
Dedication: To Japonicastar. You finished Always around the time I did this here thing. And bow_to_chaos proofread it... Those were the days.
Written: 2007...?
Rating: Darkish.
Genre: Angsty, this one. I *think*. Yeah, it is. I checked.
Type: Novel-length
Title:
Chapter Nineteen - Causality Part One -- Stratagem
The next morning did not bring any improvements with it, starting with the weather. A storm raged outside, the clap of thunder unhelpful as ever to make Harry’s nightmares less vivid. Kept awake half the night brooding, rehashing his misadventures, the storm that unleashed when he had finally managed something more than a doze only worsened matters.
At one point, waking up from a particularly nasty dream with a scream, he fancied he heard an echoing scream coming from outside his room-but that was impossible; he was the only one in that storey.
The lousy night only set the theme for the day, it seemed: Breakfast wasn’t much better, which he suspected had to do with the fact Connor didn’t look much rested at all either, and was in a much similar mood to his; rotten.
Only, Harry had spent half the night brooding himself to frustration, and was in no accommodating mood. Consequently, he had little patience with the glances sent his way, which were starting to feel more like silent challenges than anything.
Challenging back was becoming increasingly tempting, a confrontation harder to avoid.
A letter arrived however, from Gringotts, and soon Headquarters, which for some reason contained more people than Harry remembered hearing come in during the night, was all of a flurry of activity.
The letter, which required the twins’ presence in Diagon Alley the next day to weigh their wands or some such grout, was passed from hand to hand, and hurried plans were made to meet the appointment. A rather sleep-deprived Tonks explained to Harry it had to do with some vaults not needing a key to be opened, but the owner’s wand being used for that purpose. And for this process, the twins had to be present.
The possibility of not taking them to Diagon Alley was briefly discussed, but Bill squashed that one early on.
“You don’t want to stand the goblins up,” he told them. “If they say weigh your wand a certain date, you have to be there. It’s a matter of respect to them, and you know how nasty they can get if they feel they’ve been wronged.”
The prospect of leaving the Black house for a few hours did the trick for the twins, who looked rather cheered up once it was made clear they had to go. Mrs. Weasley then said something about having to buy her kids’ and Harry’s supplies for the upcoming school year, and the twins needed to be fitted for robes as well-all the clothes they possessed were the tatty ones Harry and Ron had discarded over time.
Harry decided it was time to leave them to it, stomping up to his room in a fouler mood than before. While he had had his share of outings and even camping trips over the past couple of weeks, being cooped up in the gloomy old house with nothing but nightmares for company was awful, and though he understood the need for it, that didn’t mean he had to like it-and yes, he was rather jealous over the fact the twins would get to leave Headquarters for a few hours.
Not bothering to be quiet about it, he slammed the door to Sirius’ room shut, throwing himself onto the bed with a huff.
“Oh, if it isn’t the Potter boy,” a mocking voice drawled lazily from the far wall. Harry glared at a hereto empty frame, which was now occupied by none other than Phineas Nigellus.
Figures.
It seemed Dumbledore had returned to his habit of spying on him. Not unexpected, as far as things had gone up until now, but at the moment Harry was not in the mood for anyone, much less being understanding or civil towards anyone.
“Miffed today, are we?”
Least of all Phineas Nigellus, the rotten bastard.
“Get stuffed, you,” Harry snapped.
“Getting smart now, eh? Mind your manners, and who you’re talking to, you little rascal. That good-for-nothing great-great-grandson of mine was just the sa-OY, you little lout!” The last bit of that was muffled, and nothing followed. Who’d have known that to shut Phineas up, all he had to do was turn the frame around?
“I said: get stuffed,” he snarled again, peeved to the extreme. On his way back to bed though, he stubbed his toe, which did nothing to improve his mood.
Hopping on one foot and cursing under his breath didn’t do much to mitigate his frustration, particularly not when he lost his balance and toppled over, out of breath.
“Bloody hell!” he yelled at the empty room, fuming as he raffled himself up, holding on to the wall-
Only to land on the floor again a split second later when the wall gave way.
The oath that was well on its way out of his mouth died before it was uttered; he had been leaning on one of the faded Gryffindor banners permanently stuck to the wall, which was now gone. A gaping hole was there in its stead, stretching into a dark corridor or passage of some sort.
All traces of anger forgotten, Harry sat up again, blinking slowly at the dark gap before him. Stuffy air and some dust motes reached his nose, making it prickle, but he paid it no mind, focusing instead on remembering all Sirius had told him about the house; there was a garden, he’d said, but he’d not seen it since he was twelve-his parents had done something to it, so that whenever he arrived at the house, he could not so much as find the door to it; the windows had been charmed to look outside, yes, but could not be opened, by magic or force; Harry racked his brains, trying to remember. He had not paid too much attention to Sirius’ stories back then, too busy hating the house and its filthy, dinghy feel, to pay him any heed. He could not remember ever hearing a mention of this passage, or where it led to.
He made up his mind, eyes trying to pierce the darkness, ears pricked up for any tell-tale sound coming from within. His wand was out before he knew it, and he was padding cautiously down the passage the next moment, scanning it for dangers in the beam of his wand. There was no sign of any sort of peril whatsoever, just a gaping black hole that smelled of old dust and lack of airing. The floor a few feet inside, though, showed marks in the layers of dust, pawprints… and footprints.
He looked long at them, something tightening in his chest that made him want to turn back and carry on moping. And yet... Sirius had known of this passage. That meant it was safe, wasn’t it?
First good news of the day.
Harry’s scowl faded, a feeling of excitement bubbling up from deep inside him, of the curious, exploring sort he had not felt in a while. He turned back, to trade his slippers for his trainers, and made sure his door was securely locked before stepping into the passage again.
The beam of his wand fell upon smooth stone walls, his footfall muffled as he advanced warily, eyes trying to pierce the pitch blackness ahead.
He walked slowly, yet remained unhindered by obstacles of any sort; there were no spiders the size of plates lurking, no doxies, or boggarts, or anything other than-- crunch.
He'd stepped on something. Lowering the beam of his wand, his eyes fell on a crumpled piece of parchment under his foot, old and faded. Harry picked it up, wiping the dust off it for further examination; it was an envelope, so old he could almost not make out the address. Looking left and right in case some of the house's old monsters came round and feeling guilty for reading Sirius' old post, Harry carefully opened the envelope, taking out a single sheet and smoothing it out to read. It tore at the centre as he unfolded it, brittle after years lying there.
But… Now Harry could not help wondering about it. What was it doing here? Did anyone else know of this passage? Where did it lead to?
He’d find that out, but first things first. He turned his attention to the letter once more.
The writing on it was also faded, written in something of a coppery hue which made it all the harder to read. He squinted, trying to make out the words, but all he could establish at the time, was that the distinctive, flowing handwriting looked rather familiar. While he stood there, trying to remember where he’d seen that sort of handwriting before, he did manage to make out a date-December 19, 1974, which sent his heart racing again; Sirius had been barely 15 when he received it, possibly during the Christmas holidays in his fourth year; it was well likely the letter was sent by his father.
Harry briefly considered turning back to peruse the letter in a better lighting, but a muffled noise of a door closing and footsteps nearby made him forget all about it. He pocketed it, tiptoeing further down the passage, stepping here and there on what felt like paper, but he didn’t give the things littering the floor anything more than passing thought, concentrated instead on where the noises were coming from.
“… do you think?” It was muffled, but gave him a close enough direction to follow. Harry sped up a slight, taking a left turn as the passage split-and suddenly it opened into a niche, where he could see slivers of light shining through a couple of cracks in the wall, near the floor… and hear everything as though he were in the room… Whichever room it was he was listening in to.
“I don’t know.” It was one of the McAlpin twins, Chris. Harry pressed his ear to the wall, hardly daring to breathe. There was the creaking sag of a mattress, and locking and silencing charms were cast. At the door only, because Harry could still hear everything.
“We have to be there, eleven sharp,” Connor said. A second sag of a mattress was heard, followed by a heavy sort of sigh, familiar in itself. Harry decided to stop speculating about why it was familiar, but couldn’t help being intrigued; here were two boys he obviously shared some sort of connection with, Connor most strongly... And they seemed to hate his guts, added to the fact he knew nothing about them.
He was aware that this was a new development, and yet, the demeanour and expressions of the boys were familiar, as if he had seen them before…
Except for the bit where he hadn’t.
Ever.
It was maddening.
“We could use the fresh air,” Chris offered, but he didn’t sound very convinced.
“Aye, we could.” Connor was silent for a moment, then added, “I hate this place. It’s so…”
“Shitty,” Chris finished for him.
“That sums it up nicely.”
“No wonder he went bloody crackers in here. I feel I’ll follow trends soon.” The conversational tone wasn’t lost on Harry, but what they were on about was.
“Who cares about him?” Connor snapped. Harry frowned. “He deserved every bit of what he got.”
“Didn’t.”
“Did.” Connor spat it out, a mouthful of hatred that took Harry aback.
“No, he bloody well didn’t, and you know it.” How Chris could carry on so lightly when Connor was clearly hacked off, Harry didn’t know. He wouldn’t have managed, even if he didn’t have a clue who it was they were arguing about.
“We don’t, that’s for sure.” And thus, the topic changed abruptly, even if Connor’s bitterness hadn’t changed one jot.
“I’ll give you that,” Chris conceded.
“He, though-What the hell?” Connor said, followed by the squeak of the mattress. Harry pressed his ear all the harder against the wall.
“Whatsit?”
“He’s out there.” Connor sounded annoyed.
“Who?”
“Potter.” A cold shiver ran down Harry’s spine. How could he know that? He hadn’t made a single noise.
Or had he?
There was a sound of shuffling, a door unlocking, opening. Harry held his breath, closing his eyes. Quite distinctly, he could see in his mind’s eye, how Connor scanned the empty hallway, then went to check the staircases.
“I don’t get it,” he said upon returning. The door closed again, was locked, the spells placed on it once more. “I could’ve sworn he was right on the other side of this wall.” It came from very close to where Harry was listening, and the small noises that followed were surely caused by Connor running his hands along the wall.
“You really need to sleep more,” Chris said. “It’s getting to you-” It was getting to Harry for sure.
“I’ll do that when we’re out of here.”
“I won’t argue that,” Chris conceded. “And on that note, where are we going next? The Blackpool house is out of the question. Home isn’t an option, either.”
“We’re…” Connor didn’t finish. Chris cut him off.
“We could try going to Hogwarts-”
“Oh yeah, that’s really clever,” Connor said derisively. At least he didn’t limit his sarcasm to him only, Harry noted. The only difference seemed to be that Chris wasn’t moved at all by it. “Why don’t we hand ourselves over to Voldemort while we’re at it? That would save everyone a whole lot of trouble.”
“I didn’t mean it that way, you dobber-But honestly, what options do we have? They did away with the Blackpool house,” Chris argued back. “It was supposed to be impossible to find.”
“Supposed to being the very operative term,” Connor muttered. “There’s still the Welsh house…”
“You haven’t told anyone about it,” Chris said, and there was a definite tone of reproach there. “What if they got there too?”
“They won’t have.” Connor sounded certain.
“How come?”
“Gramps knew the Blackpool house would be taken sooner or later.” A shuffling sound, followed by the rasp of latches being undone, the hollow thud of wood on wood. “He didn’t tell me to go there… He said to go to Wales.”
“He…?” Chris sounded aghast. “You lied to the Professor? Gramps--”
“He knew, Chris.” Connor sounded bitter.
“Connor...” There was a silence, but Harry could feel the tension in the air, the finality of the tone. “What did he tell you, the other day?”
“A load of rubbish,” was the answer. Harry had a flash of a library, pale green eyes boring into his; anger, fear, regret-Knowledge, used as punishment. Or was it as a last resort?
“Don’t give me that hogwash.” Oh look, Chris did have the same explosive temper as his brother. “What happened? After the horses got stolen and the Dementors attacked?”
What? Harry backed away, stunned. He had not given the horses another thought, or indeed cared to tell the boys some of their herd was still alive.
Unbidden, he started rehashing the events in Inverarray, which he had not bothered to pick apart either. In his defence, he was out of it for days, and had not wanted to think of the matter overmuch. Now however, he came to an abrupt realisation: If he’d told the horses to go to their masters, if he’d only known he was so close to where the McAlpins lived, if he’d only realised what it was Voldemort was on about… He could have taken the horses there in time, and nobody would have died.
If only.
Harry didn’t want to listen on, feeling ill to his stomach. Did Connor know of their link? Did he know what Harry had just realised? Was that the reason for his attitude? If so, he had every right-Harry should have done something.
“I… Just drop it, alright? It doesn’t matter what he said, it’s all rubbish anyway.” Maybe he didn’t want to listen, but he could still hear every word.
“Is it?” Chris erupted hotly, Harry heard him get up. "I get it, you don’t want to talk about it, but I need to know! You were holed up there with him for hours, and then the horses bloody vanished-“
“I know,” Connor mumbled.
“Then those Dementors showed up, and-“
“And now everyone is dead.” The tone was final, yet defeated.
“Well I’m not, in case you haven’t bloody noticed, so don’t act like you’ve got to do this by yourself,” Chris snapped. There was no answer, however. “I miss them too,” came next, so softly Harry thought he'd imagined it at first. “And Gramps…”
“Could have gotten all of us out, but didn’t.” Connor’s voice was half a whisper. Harry caught it anyway. “He let himself be killed, Chris. He let it happen. He left us stranded.”
“He didn’t.” Now Chris was snarling, threatening. Harry heard something crack, a result of the anger in the room. “Don’t you dare turn it around on him!”
“It’s the truth. Break as many windows as you want, it won’t change shite. I saw it, as well as you.”
“I saw him fight to protect us! I saw him die so we wouldn't!”
“He knew they were coming beforehand. I was outside with him, we figured it out,” Connor said quietly. “And he chose to stay behind. He left us alone.”
There was no answer.
“I’m sorry.”
Harry decided he’d heard more than enough. While he could not understand all the implications, he knew he had no right to speculate. It didn’t keep him from being intrigued, certainly, but even as the silence in the room stretched, tense and mournful, a part of him knew exactly what was going on; he could feel the pain, the longing, the uncertainty and insecurity crawling under his skin, permeating every thought, mingling with remorse, regret, self-blame and a rather unhealthy dose of anger. This, he knew; the impotence, the what-ifs, the if onlys, the despair and loneliness that gripped you so tightly breathing was made impossible at times. And while this cluster of emotions was also familiar, he could pinpoint it with precision this time; he had felt the same since Sirius died.
He heard them move at last, taking advantage of the small noises in the room -- some of which sounded entirely too much like sobs to be comfortable with -- to steal down the passage, throat tightening the farther he got. The ever-increasing distance did not help ease his mind in any way, nor did the feelings fade at all.
He advanced stealthily, aware, despite how much worse he now felt, of the need for wariness, which didn’t stop him from turning matters over in his head. One more feeling added itself to the mix as the passage slanted downwards, narrowing so there was barely room enough for him to walk through it; a growing need to help the twins, which he attributed to the similarities he sensed there were between them, which he was even now only beginning to understand, amidst the mysteries surrounding the whole matter.
* * *
“What are we going to do?”
Connor shook his head, shrugging. He had not wanted this to happen, not so soon after. But Chris was right, he needed to know, bugger what Gramps had wanted. Connor knew it was unavoidable; he would have had to tell him eventually.
Eventually. Not now, when Chris was barely recovering from his injuries, when he himself wasn’t doing so hot either.
Chris was holding up better than he’d dared to hope, at least for now. The news was devastating, no matter how little Connor had dared to tell him; he’d explained, leaving out every single one of the more upsetting details, providing him with just the bare necessary information, so he could understand why they needed to keep things as secret as possible, for as long as possible.
Potentially heading Voldemort’s hit list was bad enough, though, no matter how much he tried to gloss things over.
Chris didn’t ask for details, but he was devastated by the news all the same. Details, Connor knew, he would have to provide soon enough-but for now, he knew as well as his brother did, that they had to focus on tomorrow, and surviving that trip before they could fancy to plan for anything beyond that.
“What do you reckon?” Chris asked again, reminding him he had yet to provide an answer to that.
“I reckon,” Connor began slowly, “we’ll wait until we’re better-and then try the house in Wales. If it’s taken too, then… Maybe another country. Or something.”
“Won’t we give the Order a chance?”
Connor bit his lip. It was very strange to see Chris this unsure, this forlorn and hopeless… It was rubbing off; Chris was usually the one to keep optimism alive and his head up, no matter what.
Having one’s entire family being murdered in one night because you’re the target, however, could certainly qualify as a worthy reason to lose hope, and feel small and afraid, vulnerable and alone.
“We’ll give them a chance if you'd rather,” Connor offered, in the same quiet tone he’d been using so far. He himself felt the same as Chris did, only he could not allow himself to wallow; being angry over everything made it easier to bear, and he had been entrusted with Chris’ care, he had to focus. There was simply too much at stake for them both to go helpless at the moment.
Connor was aware of the fact that up until now, the Order had provided them with a safe haven of sorts. He might not trust them, but they had been helpful so far, and at the moment the thing he wished most for was to be able to trust them.
That was where they hit a snag.
Trust had become something out of the past, something they couldn’t afford to squander-but he did desperately wish he could. So it was easy to be accommodating for Chris’ wish, logic going out the window in the face of the possibility of not having to worry so much. Of being able to get a restful night.
Chris nodded, heaving a sigh.
“Are we telling them?” he asked the second most important question that had been burning in his head.
“I dunno,” he mumbled hesitantly. “Telling them might be as good as telling the Death Eaters…”
“They might need to know,” was the reply. "Some of them."
“We’ll tell them when they need to know, then.” He hoped that time would never come, busied himself with pouring some bright fuchsia concoction into a glass, offering it to the other boy. “In the meantime, try and get some sleep. It’ll be a long day tomorrow.”
“Potter’s suspicious,” Chris insisted. He’d felt it too, then.
“We’ll deal with him when we have to.”
“Tell him,” Chris reached for the glass, plucking it from Connor’s unmoving grip. “He’s got a right to know what’s up between the two of you-and between all three of us.”
“Wonder how you came to that conclusion,” Connor retorted. So much for letting the other rest. “Maybe you’ve forgotten just how much shite we’re in, because of him?”
“I haven’t,” Chris mumbled, turning the glass round in his hands. “But it feels rather thick, not telling him. He’s all we’ve got, as you said, and--”
“And we’ll deal with him when we need to,” Connor’s voice was tight, yet no less determined. “There’s a reason why we kept out of sight, mate-I’m not binning it just because you feel that sod has a right to anything.”
“I was just saying,” Chris said, sipping the potion and cutting a grimace. “It would be fair.” Connor motioned for him to down the potion, taking the glass back and helping him lie down.
“He doesn’t deserve fair.”
“Maybe not him," Chris conceded. "You do, though.”
* * *
The narrow corridor he was in wound its way left and right, and for a while Harry contented himself with walking, thinking, and trying to tie everything he had learned together, in an attempt to make sense of matters.
As it were, a babble of voices snapped him out of his brooding. Harry stopped short, debating for a moment whether or not to follow; he had heard enough, after all. Dumbledore’s voice inviting people to sit helped him change his mind, though-This, he decided, he had every right to listen in to: The Order’s doings and schemes had to do with him, after all, and there was no other way of hearing any of it. He sped up, not caring too much whether or not he was heard. The passage turned again, and he could see light shining into it in a straight beam, which, upon closer inspection, came from a finger-thick hole at hip level.
Moody was greeting everyone in his usual grouchy manner, which made him fear being caught, for a few moments-the grizzled Ex-Auror’s magical eye was roving all around the room, he saw, as he pressed his eye against the peep-hole, which allowed him to look into the dining room… almost at the level of the ceiling, so he was looking down at the wizards and witches assembled below. For a moment, Moody’s eye roved along the wall, right past Harry. His breath caught.
“All clear,” Moody grunted, nodding at everyone.
He hadn’t seen him.
Or else, he was allowing Harry to stay and listen.
Whichever the case, Harry decided to stay put. Almost every Order member was present, taking their seats around the long dinner table, talking amongst themselves. Without exception, every face showed signs of stress and deep worry. Some looked pinched, and everyone looked tired. Harry couldn’t bring himself to feel for them much.
The meeting began; it wasn’t very enlightening at first, as the matters discussed were not alien to Harry. Healer Tonks told everyone how he and the McAlpin boys were doing, in her usual, snipish manner. Harry couldn’t help but notice, once again, how she openly disliked Dumbledore. It made him smile; she wasn’t fooled by him, then.
She might have been the only one, though. Everyone else hung onto Dumbledore’s every word, and most agreed with him out of formula. The Weasley Twins, Remus, Tonks, and Bill proved themselves the exceptions to the rule,
What followed was a discussion about the McAlpins’ situation-and it was less than hopeful. Other than the news of their health’s steady improvement, everything else ranged from depressing to frustrating. Their grandfather’s body had as yet not been retrieved, and carried on giving the Aurors and Hit Wizards a hard time; the Ministry had taken the will for examination before the twins were to have access to it; Their property in Blackpool had been found destroyed by the Death Eaters, and nobody had been any the wiser it was even ransacked in the first place; and they were due at Gringotts the day after tomorrow.
Mad-Eye was the most preoccupied of them all, which to Harry was an eye-opener in itself; the grim Ex-Auror rarely looked worried. He was used to seeing him snappishly bossing people about, always knowing what to do, in control of things, ahead of them, even. Now, there was none of it; he was earnestly worried, and not merely for the twins’ safety; he expressed his concern over their mental health and well-being enough to make it clear he cared about them, very much.
His so very uncharacteristic fretting and fussing was interrupted, though, as Snape arrived. Sweeping into the room like he usually did the Potions dungeon, the sallow-faced wizard strode straight to an empty seat to Dumbledore’s right, eyeing everyone with a disdainful sneer, which was returned with equally challenging looks from over half those present. It seemed that out of the lot, only a handful were comfortable having Snape around-and the bastard was well aware of it. He was milking it, never losing a chance to rub his position in on the rest.
He didn’t even ask what he’d missed; it was all repeated for his benefit, which Harry saw as an unnecessary attention. His fixed glare was of course, lost on the recipient of it, and sadly, his wishing for a lightning bolt to strike Snape dead as he sat there, acting like he owned the Order, also went unheard. Harry couldn’t remember when his hate for the Potions Master had grown thus great, but it was coursing through him like fire suddenly, his teeth gritted so hard they might chip, and he found himself thinking of spells suitable to cast on Snape before he knew it. He did none of the dreadful things he wanted, though, not stupid enough to blow his cover, and pressed his eye to the peep-hole again, as Dumbledore reached the end of his tale and the Order resumed their discussion of the McAlpin twins’ fate.
The Order discussed what to do with them to the last detail; everyone who could be spared was to be present in Diagon Alley on the appointed date, arriving in pairs from early on-since nine in the morning, to guard the entire area hours before the twins were due there. Bill was to escort them while inside Gringotts, and Mad-Eye, Lupin, Tonks, and Mrs. Weasley would be accompanying them throughout the trip.
And do quite a bit of shopping, too.
The subject of what to do with them in the near future popped up as well, something Snape seemed keen on learning. Moody was against sending them to Hogwarts against their will, most everyone else believed they had not a say in the matter-Dumbledore headed this faction, unsurprisingly.
“They’re not even fifteen, Alastor,” he argued, in an attempt at reasoning with Moody. “They need to finish their education to have a chance at a future, and Hogwarts is where we can keep them most safe.”
“If they don’t want to go, I’m not going to force them,” Moody growled. “Not just because it’s easier for us-they’re loaded with gold, they don’t need an education, and their training so far can show up most of your seventh years. No,” he added, as everyone started voicing their opinions on the matter, and an argument promised to surface. “The only chance at a future they have right now is survival, don’t fool yourselves. We need to figure out what to do with them, taking their opinions into account. If forced to do anything that so much as rubs them wrong, they’ll leave. They’ve been drilled to detect and avoid manipulation, and you’d much sooner catch them dead than locked up. I’m not going to spend ages hunting them down, or trying to regain their trust. I don’t want to have to scrape them off a sidewalk either; Voldemort wants them, I can’t tell you what the reason for this is, only they can. If they even know it, which I have reasons to doubt. They do know, however, that they’re targeted, at least as much as Potter, unless I’m mistaken?”
All eyes turned to Snape, and up from his lofty eavesdropping position, Harry shifted, the better to see. Snape’s face sported the usual inscrutable expression, but his eyes betrayed him. Or maybe it was the angle he was seeing things in. Either way, Snape’s eyes showed he was thinking fast, calculating, assessing.
“He hasn’t mentioned them once,” he said idly.
Lying bastard.
“But I might have some more information later; I have been drawn into the close circle of counsellors, which might yield the information you want.”
What’s that? Harry’s glasses rasped against the peephole, he was pressing his face so hard against it, not wanting to miss a thing.
The information Snape had to offer was pitifully meagre; some hogwash about the top Death Eaters or other, and just one point of interest. The mention of the name Rasmus Thanatovich made Harry snap to attention.
“So the old bastard’s still alive,” Moody growled darkly. “Figures.”
“He has been drafted by the Dark Lord, and yet, won’t take the Mark. Everyone else considers him an external advisor of sorts… And a threat.” That Snape himself was in such a position wasn’t lost on Harry. “He is presently working on several secret projects, to which I have as yet not had access. I shall let you know more as I gather new information.”
All in all, the Order meeting had offered much fodder for thought, but little by way of a solid course of action.
By the time Harry went back to his room, spotting and picking up old postcards, motorbike magazines, newspaper cutouts, torn parts of what turned out to be a motorbike repair manual, Harry had learned that the Dementors had doubled their numbers in the past four months, which some attributed to the ready supply of food they had access to; that Charlie would arrive on the 30th and was to stay behind with Harry while everyone was out in Diagon Alley - as if he needed babysitting, honestly - and that the Hit Wizards had managed to retrieve Rob McFusty’s and his wife’s bodies, which would be delivered to the family tomorrow. The funeral was to take place at the McFusty Dragon Reserve, on the first of August.
Of Harry there had been no mention, save for a comment of McGonagall’s about talking to him. Dumbledore did not seem keen on it, but agreed to do it as soon as he had a chance to. Harry hoped the said chance would be a long time in coming.
The meeting had ended on a daunting note; the Aurors were trying to pinpoint a pattern to the disappearances that had happened of late. Always it had been muggleborns, coming from families that had little to nothing to do with the war; ordinary people, living ordinary lives, save for the constant looming threat of an attack by Death Eaters. Not one had been connected to the Ministry, the Order, or even held a position that would be in any way influential for either side. None had been known to publicly or privately support either of the factions, either. Some, as Tonks had said, had been students, or children due to start Hogwarts this year, or the next.
“It makes no sense,” she had finished.
Hours later, lying in bed after rolling things over for the umpteenth time in his head, Harry decided very little did anymore.
* * *
The following day crawled by as slow and dull as the preceding ones had; Harry had managed only a couple of hours of sleep, constantly plagued by nightmares and old memories, some of which did not even belong to him. He had little energy come morning, and no interest in seeing anyone. He spent the entire morning avoiding everyone, officially locked in his room but exploring the passage he’d discovered instead.
Which led… Outside.
He’d been peering out of a brick wall next to a small side row before he knew it, rain falling on his face as he squinted around. He retreated hastily, fearing he’d triggered some alarm; but as it were, nobody was any the wiser. Had Sirius used this passage often? Who else knew of it?
He now did, at least, and decided to count it amongst the very few pros of the house.
Emerging from Sirius’ room for a short lunch after washing up, Harry soon ended up seeking refuge in the library, where he holed himself up until tea-time: Mrs. Weasley might not be the friendliest of witches of late, but she still made a point of filling him and the twins to the brim at every chance.
The McAlpin twins had been equally reluctant to interact with anyone, but as Harry reached the kitchen, he caught them talking to Remus and Tonks, who had come in from some assignment or other, looking every bit as jaded as the rest of the household.
Harry left them to it, mumbling his short responses to the usual inquiries as to his well-being and things, choosing to focus on picking at his pie without any enthusiasm, but sneaking covert glances at Chris and Connor while ignoring Remus' worried looks; Connor in particular looked under the weather, dark rings under his eyes a silent testimony of less-than-restful sleep. Chris did manage a half-hearted joke or two to Tonks’ comments on her night’s work, but he too, looked nothing like what Andromeda Tonks’ report had sounded the previous evening.
They were healing fast, she said. Doing better than she’d expected.
He wasn’t an expert in magical healing, but it still didn’t look that way to him.
And Harry was increasingly, earnestly worried. After trying to make sense of everything he’d learned the previous night, and unable to shake off the inexplicable craving for closeness with the twins, his prior curiosity had turned into something more of a raving need, to talk to them, to figure out what was going on with them…
To help them.
Which in turn he was trying to shake off; how could he, cock-up extraordinaire, so much as entertain the thought of helping anyone in the present circumstances? He couldn’t even help his own sorry arse, never mind a pair of kids who were, if possible, even worse off than he was and who, by every indication so far, wanted nothing to do with him at all?
The searing in his scar came on suddenly, and while it was unsurprising that it would happen sooner or later, he hadn’t expected it at all. Across the table from him, Connor clutched the table convulsively, staring straight into his eyes.
Harry’s fork fell from his hand with a clatter, and the rest of him followed it to the floor with a gasp that soon became a strangled cry.
Chairs scraped on wood, urgent calls were uttered, but Harry couldn’t hear them, the kitchen dissolving, water-like, into a darker, familiar room.
“Ah, Rasmus. I was wondering when you’d be back.” Harry hissed, his goblet held idly in one white, long-fingered hand, hiding from view his anticipation and impatience over this visit. “What is that you bring me?” He tilted his head the better to see.
“One more for your collection, Lord Voldemort,” came the easy reply, though the child Rasmus had brought in was still struggling. “I came across it along the way here.”
Harry nodded, pleased matters were going so well.
“How many more, my old friend?”
“Seven more,” Rasmus said, handing the bound figure to a Death Eater, who dragged it off. “I trust by the due date, we’ll be covered-as long as Bellatrix stops toying with them. Particularly the younger ones; the way she’s going on about it, they won’t last, and children are hard to come by on a tight schedule.”
“I’ll tell her to lay off,” Harry promised. “But that’s not the reason why you’re here.”
Rasmus graced him with a smirk, assenting with his head. He walked to an armchair next to Harry’s, lowering himself on it.
“The Longbottoms,” he said. “They’re at St. Mungo’s now, at their monthly visit. I am ready to strike as soon as they return-in half an hour.” A frisson of eagerness took hold of Harry-were they there?
“And you believe the targets have contacted them?” he asked. Rasmus shrugged dismissively.
“Whether they have or not, remains to be seen. If they are on their own, sooner or later they’ll contact help-And if said help is unavailable to them, sooner than later they’ll be found. Severus has promised me to let me know at once, should they contact the Order of the Phoenix. So far, he has had nothing to provide.”
“He did not give you any trouble, I trust?”
A thin smile, which betrayed a promise of what would happen, should anyone dare give him any trouble.
“None, my Lord.”
“Very well. What intend you to do at the Longbottoms’ house?”
“Burn it to the ground,” was the rather idle reply. “I am aware it might be a tad trite and hackneyed a strategy,” he admitted, snapping his fingers for some wine. “But its effects on the popular psyche have yet to be topped. The old woman won’t submit to any manner of… negotiation, as we well know. She would rather die than acknowledge your power. Thus she shall get her wish.”
Harry chuckled, nodding his agreement. The Longbottom woman had been an annoyance to him for years. Even the maddening of her son and daughter-in-law had not been enough to quench her. She might not constitute a threat, perhaps, but she certainly was an enemy to his regime. And entirely too old to be allowed to live; the woman was stealing oxygen, for Salazar’s sake.
“I am also wondering what the heir has to offer. Not much, if what I have gathered of the boy is any indication.”
“A true pity. Do you think he’ll submit?”
“I shall find out shortly.”
“If he does, leave him alive,” Harry advised. “I could use one more of the Nine at my side, and the Longbottom vault’s contents as well. They are of pure blood, after all. Can’t kill them off like dogs. That would look bad on our presentation letters.”
“That may be, but their deaths might prove much stronger a message to those daring to rebel against your power. Either way, they shall prove useful.” Ah, Rasmus, finding win-win solutions to everything.
“When are you striking?”
“Within the hour; from what I have learned, they commonly return from St. Mungo’s for dinner,” Rasmus informed, sipping his wine. “I shall surprise them while they eat. I took down the wards this morning after they left, all I lack are some of your minions to do the dirty work.”
Nothing easier to provide.
“You there, come here,” Harry ordered one of his Death Eaters, beckoning him with a flick of his wrist. “Bring me Bellatrix. She has played around in the Pit long enough. And call my loyal Death Eaters to me. They have work to do.”
* * *