HP fic: The Founder Mirror (Pro + 1/?) PG-13
TITLE: The Founder Mirror
GENRE: action/adventure/drama/angst/romance
PAIRING(s): Harry/Ginny & Ron/Hermione
RATING: PG-13 (so far)
SUMMARY: Set almost immediately after DH (book 7) Harry Potter, along with several others from his year; including Ron and Hermione, are given the chance to re-do their seventh year at Hogwarts. Given that Voldemort is dead everyone is expecting it to be quiet year. They couldn’t have been more wrong. An ancient dark wizard with a grudge against Hogwarts and one of its original co-founders finds his way back to wreak his revenge; meaning Harry and everyone at Hogwarts are once again in mortal peril.
NOTES: This story was originally going to be Gen but I've changed my mind and will be racking up the romance'n'angst *g*
SPOILERS: YES (All seven books).
FEEDBACK: Loved and appreciated, and it keeps the muse oiled.
DISCLAIMER: Harry Potter (et all) belong to JKR and various other people who aren’t me. There is no infringement intended and no profit made.
~
Prologue
Very few of the hidden items survived the fiendfyre. The Room of Requirement itself remained fully functional, but, if you happened to be looking for somewhere to hide something forbidden, you would probably find the proffered hideaway more than a little scorched. Anything made of paper or wood had been incinerated within moments of the spell being uttered; even some of the harder wearing items made of metal had melted during the few minutes the inferno had raged.
Now, two months later and with a new term due to start within two weeks time, Argus Filch, the much despised Hogwarts caretaker was sorting through the debris and supervising a thorough wash down by the house elves. The few salvageable pieces were to be taken to the new Headmistress for a decision to be reached on what to do with them. Mrs Norris, Filch’s cat, was prowling around the very small pile with her tail twitching.
“What’s the matter, my pet?” crooned Filch, noticing Mrs Norris’ agitation. “Is the student filth upsetting your nerves? Not that I blame you. The things we’ve found would have been enough to mean a whipping not so long ago. It’s a shame it is that the old ways have died out.”
The old leather chest he’d been carrying banged down the floor too close to Mrs Norris. Letting out a yowl, she scrambled sideways and her hindquarters landed on a round polished silver mirror with a long handle. The instant her furry rear touched the mirror both ears flattened and hissing madly she streaked away and out of the open door.
Filch stared in confusion after his cat, then, searching for an explanation for her behaviour, he reached down and picked up the mirror by its long, tarnished handle. For a moment while Filch had stared into the polished surface he thought he caught a glimpse of a monkey-faced old man with a long beard. Squinting, Filch turned the mirror this way and that, until satisfied he’d imagined the scowling face, he put it back on the pile.
Chapter One
BACK TO SCHOOL
Harry Potter, The Boy Who Lived, or as Draco Malfoy his once put it, The Boy Who Scored, stared up at the ceiling of the room he was sharing with his friend Ron Weasley. It was the dead of night and he couldn’t sleep. After tossing and turning for over an hour he’d finally given up and accepted insomnia. As if to mock him, there were regular snorts and grunts from the other bed in the room. Ron’s snores were mildly irritating, probably an extension of Harry’s envy at his friend’s ability to simply slide smoothly into sleep.
Tonight was by no means the first night that sleep had eluded Harry and he was perfectly aware of the reasons why. He missed Hedwig. More, he missed, Fred, Lupin, Tonks and Dobby. He even felt a few sharp pangs over little Colin Creevey. The weeks since the Battle of Hogwarts (as it was now being called) had done little to dull the grinding pain of loss. In the last two months, Harry had found that it could drag you down like quicksand when you least expected it. He only hoped that the aching hollow would gradually fill with time. He wasn’t banking on it though; after all he had some experience. It had been over two years now since Sirius had died and he still missed him every bit as when his godfather had first died. Everyone at The Burrow was the same. The first ten days had passed in a blessed haze as the survivors buried friends and loved ones. With the passing of the numbness came tears. There were frequent bouts of weeping and it wasn’t just the women; although they didn’t feel the need to hide it as religiously as the males in the house.
The newspapers had been some tiny consolation and, given the fact that the Weasley family had all been involved; either in the Order or the DA, it was impossible to shut out an outside world that insisted on loudly proclaiming (rightly) that they’re all heroes. The paragraph dedicated to Fred had had Mrs Weasley weeping copiously over a sizzling frying pan filled with sausages.
Not that you could tell that he’d had help at all from the front pages-you had to look deeper inside the likes of the Daily Prophet to find anyone mentioned other than Harry himself; a fact that he found mortifying. His discomfort wasn’t helped by the fact that Kreacher had made a collage of clippings similar to the one Regulus Black had created decades ago, and presented it to Harry earlier that day.
The earliest article was dated the day after he’d killed Voldemort.
HE WHO MUST NOT BE NAMED; SLAIN! The brutal, if mercifully short, reign of the darkest wizard of our time has been brought to an end-by Harry Potter. Undisputedly ‘The Chosen One’, seventeen year old Mr Potter led a surprise rebellion at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft & Wizardry. Details are sketchy at this time, but sources in nearby Hogsmeade confirm that a violent, pitch battle took place between Death Eaters, teachers and students; ending in a chilling duel between the boy once known simply as The Boy Who Lived, and He Who Must Not Be Named…
With three pages dedicated to the story, the paper had gone on and on with ever wilder speculation about what had happened inside Hogwarts castle and the forest surrounding it. Some of it was true, such as Harry surviving a second killing curse (although he was mystified about how that had come out), but taking on two giants single-handed? Did he look insane? There was even a reference to Dumbeldore having left Harry a mission before he died; although, thankfully, there was no mention of Horcruxes.
Unfortunately, the next article to catch his house-elf’s eye had followed a similar theme and had made Harry squirm even harder when he’d scanned it.
DARKNESS DESTROYED. The magical community has not witnessed scenes of jubilant celebration like those pictured below for sixteen years. (The moving photograph accompanying the article was a riot of hysterically joyous movement; jammed with manically grinning faces and hands waving wands lit like sparklers) Everywhere witches and wizards are weeping for joy, both jubilant and grieving now that He Who Must Not Be Named has been finally and completely vanquished. Pictures of Harry Potter adorn every shop and home window. Banners are flying from the top of battlements, towers and zooming along behind broomsticks. The proprietors of Diagon Alley-along with the newly returned Ollivander, legendary wand-maker-have been stringing extravagant decorations from pillar to post and letting off truly spectacular fireworks ever since word first reached them of Harry Potter fulfilling his destiny. “Anybody who really knew Harry Potter could not doubt his eventual victory,” maintains Mr Ollivander. “From the moment I first met him I realised he was extraordinary. Luckily for me as it turned out.” Many who read this statement will say that it’s a pity he didn’t speak up sooner when Mr Potter, the saviour of the wizarding world, was being vilified as a liar and possible murderer of Albus Dumbledore…
The next one at least featured the Order rather than him; although they’d managed to squeeze his name in somewhere.
THICKNESSE CLAIMS IMPERIUS CURSE. Wizards up and down the country have been left reeling after stunning revelations that the recently deposed Minister for Magic, Pius Thicknesse, has been under the illegal Imperius curse for months; allowing He Must Not Be Named to penetrate every level of the Ministry. The consequences of this horrific penetration have been numerous, including; Aurors being ordered to track down anyone resisting the new regime, most especially Harry Potter and his heroic compatriots and fellow students of Hogwarts. If that isn’t bad enough readers will remember all too well the introduction of the muggle-born registration policy that led to the torture, and often murder, of innocent wizards and witches. The newly appointed temporary Minister for Magic, Kingsley Shacklebolt-a confirmed member of the Order of the Phoenix-has the unenviable job of restoring faith…
The last had been the worst. After a quick glance, Harry had stuffed the offending ‘gift’ under his pillow so the others wouldn’t see it. Kreacher would never have to know.
HOW HARRY POTTER SAVED MY LIFE. Mrs Mary Cattermole, married to Reginald Cattermole of the Ministry’s Magical Maintenance Department has given an exclusive interview, detailing how, ‘The Chosen One’, rescued her and scores of others from the clutches of accused muggle-hater, Dolores Umbridge, and her dementor-ridden court. “I was chained and surrounded by prowling dementors. I was terrified; convinced I would never see my children again-then HE came. I didn’t know who he was at first,” Mrs Cattermole admits candidly, “But then I heard one of his friends say his name. He has a beautiful stag patronus,” she says with a hint of awe. “It was so powerful and bright that looking at it hurt my eyes. Once he’d conjured it, it stampeded away the dementors and took us all to safety. I’ll never forget it-or him.” Find out more, including how young, daring Mr Potter was masquerading as the very same man who’d handed Mrs Cattermole over to dear Dolores in the first place, page 3 column 5.
Rolling onto his side and punching pillow, Harry-with more than a trace of desperation-was coming to the conclusion that if the rest of the people who’d helped him defeat Voldemort were to get their fair share of front-page glory, he was going to have give an interview and spell out the truth. Under the covers, he shuddered at the thought of another one-on-one with Rita ‘Acid Quill’ Skeeter.
On second thoughts Harry mused, maybe he should persuade Neville to do the interview, or even Luna. That idea made him smile fully for the first time all day. A Ravenclaw from Ginny’s year, Luna Lovegood was a dreamy, other-worldy girl with a habit of stating indisputable and uncomfortable truths. Still, it would certainly make interesting reading he thought and his grin widened. Harry spent the next quarter of an hour imagining the kind of stuff she’d come out with, and ended up amused and relaxed enough to finally drift off to sleep.
~
Harry woke abruptly when someone sat down next to his hip on the camp bed. Bone tired, he didn’t sit up, but merely rolled over and scowled at the sun-haloed, bushy-haired and blurred outline that had caused him to waken. “Whasmatter?”
“I’m so sorry, Harry,” said a contrite Hermione, pushing his glasses very gently onto his face. “I know you’re sleeping poorly and I wouldn’t wake you up for the world, except Professor McGonagall is here and asking to speak to all three of us.”
Harry’s sluggish brain didn’t clear just because his eyesight had sharpened enough to actually see Hermione’s concerned gaze raking his wan, thin face. “Professor McGonagall is here?” he repeated dumbly, parroting without understanding.
“Yes,” she nodded. “She says she wants to the three of us together.”
Harry sat up so fast his head spun as possible reasons for such a visit dive-bombed the sleep fog away. “Did she say why?” he asked, worry clear in his tone. Even knowing Voldemort was dead, he’d had numerous nightmares showing him the opposite. One came back to haunt him; Voldemort returning as the flailing, choking and deformed creature he’d seen in his head when he’d met the dead (and yet still lively) Dumbledore at Kings Cross Station.
“Not, but she doesn’t look upset or anything,” Hermione rushed to reassure him. “Mrs Weasley offered her breakfast and Professor McGonagall agreed. I doubt she’d be hungry if she had come to delivery bad news, do you?”
“No, I suppose not. Good point.”
At that moment, Ron burst into the room, all red hair and freckles and his lanky frame covered in the usual t-shirt and jeans. “C’mon, get up, Harry. I’m bursting to know why McGonagall’s turned up and the old bat’s refusing to drop even a hint until we’re all there.”
Chivvied along by his two best friends, Harry pulled on his own jeans and a faded T-shirt that was now tight across his shoulders, and clattered down the stairs towards the cheery dining room. As usual it was filled with the mouth watering smells of egg, bacon, toast and kippers. Ginny was already at the table, chin cupped in her hands and eyes swollen as evidence that she’d already had a bout of crying before coming down. Despite the blotchy proof of tears she was still pretty. Looking at her hurt him so Harry looked quickly away. Behind her daughter, Mrs Weasley was at the stove, flipping eggs with her wand. At the head of the table, Professor McGonagall gave Ginny’s arm one last comforting pat and then smiled at Harry.
“Good morning, Harry,” she said, adding with just a trace of her usual sarcasm, “It’s nice to see you being such an early bird on a fine summer morning like this.”
He couldn’t answer immediately, undone by the fact that she’d called him Harry and not Potter. It reinforced the fact that his life had changed irrevocably. There was no more Hogwarts for him now and insufficient qualifications for the only occupation he’d ever considered. “Morning,” he mumbled and slid into a seat. Hermione took the seat opposite him and Ron the one next to her.
“Morning, Harry, dear,” greeted Mrs Weasley, bustling over with the pan in hand and sliding two fried eggs onto his plate. “Bacon and sausage will just be two ticks. Help yourself to bread, Minerva,” she said as an aside to Professor McGonagall.
The moment the words were out of her mouth a freshly baked loaf sailed out of the oven, landing expertly on the bread board. Immediately the knife rose to slice it, glinting in the golden sun shining in through the kitchen window. Harry took two of the fragrant, warm slices and made an egg sandwich while he waited for the meat. Taking a bite, Harry realised he couldn’t ask the professor why she was there with his mouth full and wished he’d waited to start eating.
Luckily, Ron wasn’t so encumbered; neither was Hermione who got there first, “We’re all here now, Professor,” she prodded, far more politely than Ron had been about to do.
“So you are, Miss Granger,” agreed McGonagall, “and, as such, I’ll get to the point. None of you completed your NEWTS.”
There was a stunned silence. “We were kind of busy,” Ron muttered defensively when his mother hissed an aggrieved agreement. “Not to mention that Snape would have handed us over to Voldemort the second we turned up if we’d been stupid enough to try it.” Ron had finally dropped his phobia about saying the name when he’d seen the feeble and shrunken remains of the thoroughly defeated dark wizard.
Harry just about managed to bite back the words, ‘Professor Snape.’ He was still coming to terms with this new respect he suddenly had for a teacher he’d loathed for six years, so advertising it to Ron was out of the question-yet.
“Be that as it may,” said McGonagall crisply. “You don’t have such excuses this year, do you?”
Hermione who had been fretting with increasing furore over this self-same topic went still, frozen with either trepidation or hope (perhaps both) and staring wide-eyed at the new Headmistress of Hogwarts.
Harry had swallowed his mouthful, so he could ask, “But we’re too old now aren’t we, Professor? I mean, there’ll be Ginny’s year in Seventh won’t there?”
“That is very true, Harry,” McGonagall agreed, “But, there are quite a few students from the previous seventh year that were unable to complete their studies besides yourself; Neville Longbottom, Dean Thompson and Seamus Finnigan to name just a few. Personally, I think it would be extremely remiss of Hogwarts not to give you the opportunity to complete your education given the …extenuating circumstances shall we say.”
When they didn’t reply straight away, she dropped her fork and glared at Harry. “Do you not still wish to become an Auror, Potter?”
The return of his surname was ridiculously, warmingly familiar. Still, he grimaced. “I do…I just hadn’t thought that I could…”
McGonagall brushed his insecurities aside. “Oh, I’m sure they’d take you without any NEWTS given what you’ve accomplished, but to my mind that would be a mistake,” she said firmly. Harry goggled at her. He hadn’t considered just asking if they’d have him anyway. McGonagall didn’t seem to notice the effect of her words and continued, “As skilled as you undoubtedly are at ridding us of dark wizards already you must never ignore the basics, Potter. There are important things we teachers can still teach you.” Having said that, she finished truculently, “and I for one want the opportunity to do so.”
“All three of us?” squeaked Hermione, white with the notion that she might be excluded.
“Of course all three of you,” was the brusque retort, “And more of your year if they wish it. The situation last year at Hogwarts was hardly usual for many students. It’ll be a stretch to accommodate so many additional seventh years, but I’m sure we’ll manage somehow.”
Across from him, Ginny was waiting pale-faced and tense for their answer although she didn’t look at Harry. He wondered miserably if she was hoping he’d say no to going back to Hogwarts. Looking anywhere but at his ex-girlfriend, Harry stared at Ron whose own eyes were bouncing from his gesticulating mother (anxious for him to agree), to Hermione and finally to Harry. Finally, in tandem they said, “We’ll be there.”
~
Once they’d agreed, Professor McGonagall prepared to depart, thanking Molly for her breakfast and handing them each their book lists. Mrs Weasley swiped them out of their hands, cheerfully announcing an imminent trip to Diagon Alley. Harry got the distinct impression that she was afraid to wait in case the three of them changed their minds about returning to Hogwarts. He could have told her not to worry, that he was delighted and relieved to be allowed to complete his final year, but she didn’t give him a chance to speak; too busy listing all of the things they would need to purchase now that there were four of them to outfit for school.
The planned visit to Diagon Alley suffered a set-back, however, when Mr Weasley was told about it that evening over dinner. Tall, thin and with a face that was usually set in genial lines, Arthur Weasley only retained remnants of the bright red hair that he’d passed onto his seven children. “Now, Molly,” he said as they all sat down to steak and kidney pie with mashed potatoes. “You can’t take Harry to Diagon Alley on your own. In the current climate you’ll be mobbed the second anybody realises he’s there.”
Stunned at that statement, Harry’s hand froze with the gravy jug half poised to pour some of the thick, rich contents over his dinner. He looked up, but for some inexplicable reason Mr Weasley avoided his eyes.
“Oh, really, do you think so?” said Mrs Weasley, disconcerted. “I just assumed that with the danger over…”
“Yeah, so did I,” piped up Ron, looking thoroughly confused. Next to him and across from Harry, Hermione was wearing her ‘of course, why didn’t I think of that’ face.
“Yes, well, Voldemort might be dead, but there are still Death Eaters on the loose, Ron. The Ministry is hunting them down but it’s still too soon to relax completely. Anyway, it’s not enemies I’m worried about,” Mr Weasley admitted ruefully. “Harry’s fame…well, let’s just say that it would make visits to wizard only places a little tricky right now. I doubt you’d get two ft without attracting a horde of admirers.” Reaching over he patted his wife’s hand. “I’m sorry if it upsets your plans, but I really do think, my dear, that it would be better for you to wait until Saturday when I can come with you?”
“I didn’t notice anything at Ministry when we went with Voldemort’s body, or at the memorial.” Harry protested. “I wasn’t mobbed either time and there were loads of people milling around.” He was uneasy over Mr Weasley’s inability to look him in the eye, and wondering if Ron’s dad was unhappy over how much attention, he, Harry was getting when his own family had played just as big a part in saving the wizarding world?
“Actually, Harry,” it was Hermione who answered his unspoken question, “You were distracted, almost detached; which is hardly surprising given everything that had happened,” she added hastily when he gave her a dark look. “You probably didn’t notice how much protection we all had…”
“Protection,” said Ron, around a mouthful of potato and spouts, “What protection? I didn’t see any protection either.”
“Hermione’s right,” said Mr Weasley. “Kingsley Shacklebolt arranged it so that no one except friends, family or members of the order could get close to you. There were dozens of Aurors there as well as standard law enforcement wizards keeping everyone back. You won’t have that in Diagon Alley; which is why I’d rather you didn’t go alone.”
“Oh, well, if you say so, Arthur,” agreed Mrs Weasley with a sigh at the delay. “Are you sure you can get the time off, though?”
“Oh, don’t worry about that. I only have to ask for a favour these days and people are falling over to help me.” Mr Weasleys smile was so reminiscent of the twins that Harry got a jolt in his stomach at the sight.
~
So it was three days later when Harry, Hermione and the Weasleys got out of a Ministry car outside the Leaky Cauldron. The pub itself was full in a way Harry hadn’t seen in two years. The spectre of Voldemort rising up again had caused the wizarding community to draw in on itself. People had stayed at home, never venturing out unless absolutely necessary. Socialising had been strictly limited to intimate acquaintances, and furtive even then. Not so now. The din of unfettered conversation washed over them as they stepped through the door into the candle-lit gloom.
Tom, the inn-keeper, a wizened, toothless old man, did a double-take when he spotted Harry wending his way through the ebullient, chattering throng. “Bless me! It’s Harry Potter!”
It was as if a mute button had pushed. Instantly all conversation ceased.
Harry was uneasily reminded of the very first time he’d walked into the Leaky Cauldron with Hagrid as a short and skinny eleven years old. Once again every eye was on him. Nobody moved for a full ten seconds; then they converged on him. The people nearest him grabbed his hands and pumped them so enthusiastically that both shoulders soon felt wrenched. Others simply reached out to touch some part of him, apparently not noticing that they were jostling him to and fro. If that wasn’t alarming enough, the noise was deafening and Harry could no longer see Hermione, Ron or Ginny who had been flanking him moments before.
“Upon my word…such an honour, Mr Potter.”
“…have no idea how much it means…”
“I whispered a protective charm every time I heard your name, dear….least I could do.”
“…could kiss you…daughter safe…”
“…never thought I’d get to meet you…incredible…”
“Nice to meet you too,” said Harry to nobody in particular, looking around wildly. “Look, this is great, but I, er, need to find my friends.”
From a few feet away, Harry could hear Mr and Mrs Weasley protesting and trying to push through but couldn’t see them. His own protests were lost in the babble of voices. Harry had another flashback, this time to the immediate aftermath of his final duel with Voldemort when the surviving Hogwarts fighters had run at him, hugging, pulling or patting any part of they could reach. Back in the present, Harry tried to push his way through the crowd without hurting anyone, desperate to reach free air, but unable to make any headway.
All of a sudden there was a sharp CRACK. Then a booming voice, “Tha’s enough of THA’. Let ‘im through now. Come on. ‘E can’t breathe with yer lot crowding roun’.”
Obediently, and as if just noticing how alarmed and rumpled Harry was now looking, witches and wizards fell back with exclamations of dismay.
“I’m so sorry, dear boy.”
“Oh, gracious, I didn’t realise…”
“Apologies, Mr Potter. I simply wanted to thank you…”
“Hagrid,” Harry greeted happily, ignoring everyone else and walking (a little shakily) to meet his half giant friend who was twice as tall as most men and three times as wide. “I didn’t know you were going to be here. It’s really great to see you.”
“Hi, Hagrid,” chorused Hermione and Ginny as they finally managed to push their way through, too. Ron merely clapped him on the back, speechless and grateful for the rescue. He was looking more than a little unkempt himself having obviously shared in the too enthusiastic greetings of admirers. The fact that Hermione and Ginny were looking a lot less mussed suggested that Ron had acted the gentleman and shielded them. Harry caught Ginny’s eye and wished he hadn’t when she looked away almost immediately.
Beetle dark eyes crinkled in a smile over a wild tangle of beard. “Mornin’ yer lot. Nice to yer too Harry. Arthur asked me ta come and meet yer,” said Hagrid, nodding to Mr and Mrs Weasley who had just joined the group. “Mornin’, Arthur, Molly. I see why yer wanted me ta come.”
“And I’m very glad I did ask you,” agreed Mr Weasley feelingly. “Shall we go through before the people who were stuck at the back of the crowd decide now is the time to try and shake Harry’s hand?”
“And mine,” interjected Ron. “My back’s been slapped so much it feels like it’s been kicked by a mad hippogriff.”
Hermione offered him a smile of sympathy just as a red-faced Mrs Weasley got her breath back. “Morning, Hagrid, and yes, let’s go,” she said, throwing a baleful look at the slowly dispersing crowd. “We’ve got a lot of shopping to do. All four of them need new robes, and Harry needs new everything so he tells me.”
“Gringotts first then, I reckon,” said Hagrid, turning to lead the way to the back of the pub.
Outside and past the archway from the Leaky Cauldron, Harry was pleased to see that the dark pall that had cast an enormous shadow over Diagon Alley had lifted. The shops lining the streets were no longer plastered in wanted posters complete with leering photographs of Death Eaters, nor, even more happily, ones of himself as ‘Undesirable Number One.’
The shops devoted to the Dark Arts had similarly disappeared, the proprietors’ likely forced to slink back to Knockturn Alley with its narrow, dark and dank street. The beggars were also gone, replaced once more by wizards and witches cheerfully browsing fantastic displays in gleaming shop windows. Even Florean Fortesques ice-cream parlour was open again; sadly without Florean himself. Walking down the familiar street, Harry was forced to admit that the Daily Prophet had got its fact right for once-there was a definite air of jubilation. He might even have felt proud for his part in achieving that if not for his arms still aching from being thanked too vigorously already.
The white marble façade of Gringotts, the wizarding bank run by goblins, gleamed in the distance at the end of the street. Harry glanced at Hermione and Ron and saw by the trepidation on their faces that (like him) they were remembering the last time they’d entered it. “Erm, Hagrid,” said Harry, slowing his footsteps, “I don’t think it would be a good idea for Ron, Hermione or me to go into Gringotts. We, erm-”
“We impersonated a couple of Death Eater customers, imperiused one of the goblins, stole from a high security vault and destroyed half the building when we escaped on one of their dragons,” Ron finished for him. “Somehow, I can’t see them just letting us saunter in...more like chuck us in front of one of those maniac carts they use to get about.”
“Ah, don’ you worry about that yer two,” said Hagrid, shaking his great big head and chuckling. “They won’t like wha’ yer did, but if they won’ upset yer, or risk upsetting three-quarters of their other wizard customers. Goblins are more canny than that, eh.”
“If you say so,” said Ron, hunching his shoulders and looking far from convinced.
“What Hagrid says makes sense,” said Hermione, linking her arms through both of theirs, hurrying them up to catch up with Ginny and Mr and Mrs Weasley. “Come on, let’s not lag behind. We’ve got lucky so far in that no-one’s realised Harry’s here, but there’s no telling how long that’ll last. The sooner we’re done here the better. It’ll be bedlam if they spot him and I personally don’t want a repeat of the Leaky Cauldron.”
Harry tucked in his chin and made a concerted effort not to catch anyone’s eye. He fervently wished he’d thought to bring his invisibility cloak. “And you think I do?” he growled as they walked up the marble steps to meet the waiting Weasleys.
“Of course you don’t,” Hermione soothed, gulping a little as she caught sight of the liveried goblin holding the doors open for an elderly witch in a lavender cloak walking ahead of them.
Unexpectedly, the goblin bowed very low as they trooped past him. Once they were passed him, Hagrid grinned and winked at them. “Told yer didn’ I.”
Half an hour later and carrying money bags heavy with gold galleons, silver sickles and bronze knuts, they walked back out. Hagrid took up the rear of their little group to keep anyone following too closely. Their reception in the bank hadn’t been as bad as the pub (possibly the more formal atmosphere in Gringotts was to be thanked for that), but they’d been bowed at and whispered about enough to know that the same grateful sentiment existed here too. However, when they had been stopped, Harry had found he could be a lot more patient due to the fact that Hermione and Ron drew almost as much attention as he himself.
He wasn’t the only one pleased with that fact; Ron was pink-eared and Hermione was pink-cheeked. He slid them a grin and got one back in return. Ron’s walk developed a hint of a strut as they followed his parents to ‘Madam Malkin’s Robes for All Occasions’. They stopped outside.
“There are too many of us to go in together,” said Mrs Weasley, decisively. “Arthur, you take Harry and Ron in first to get measured up and I'll take Ginny and Hermione to get their books at Flourish and Blotts. We can swap over later.”
She turned to the massive figure of Hagrid, but he spoke first, “I’ll stay with these two (he jerked his thumb towards Harry and Ron) and keep an eye from outside. I won’ go in though if yer don’ mind? It’s a bit cramped, yer see.”
Nobody did mind and with the plan decided they separated. Harry, Ron and Mr Weasley entered the robe shop. The back of the shop was hidden from view by racks of robes in various colours. There were voices coming from behind the robes indicating that Madam Malkin was already concentrating on a customer. That wasn’t what made Harry groan. What did was the sight of the pale-haired and pale faced woman and son sitting waiting to be served; Draco and his mother Narcissa Malfoy.
“Ugh,” grunted Ron feelingly, muttering in an undertone, “just who I didn’t want to see-or ever set eyes on again, preferably.”
Harry agreed wholeheartedly, however he couldn’t help noticing the huge difference in the Malfoys; gone was the arrogance and superiority of their last meeting in this very shop. Mr Weasley seemed to falter at the sight of Narcissa Malfoy, then recovered and nodded politely to her. Mother and son gave every indication of wishing the floor would swallow them up. After a pause, Narcissa Malfoy nodded back and carefully placed a courtesy copy of today’s Daily Prophet back on the low wooden table in front of her.
Draco Malfoy didn’t acknowledge them at all; which was a big improvement on previous meetings, and likely due to the fact that it was Harry’s testimony that saved Draco’s mother from joining his father in Azkaban.
There were three spindle-backed wooden chairs supplied for customers forced to wait. The Malfoys were occupying two of them. Harry and Ron remained standing so Mr Weasley took the final seat. Nobody spoke and the atmosphere was heavy with the ghost of old allegiances. Draco was sitting so tight, tense and silent he reminded Harry of that time he’d seen him through Voldemort’s mind, sitting at a table in his family’s manor, surrounded by Death Eaters and trying not to watch Hogwarts previous muggle-studies teacher as she hung suspended several feet above him.
Against all inclination and instinct sympathy prickled. Not liking the alien sensation (alien when related to a boy he’d despised for seven years) and needing to do something, Harry bent down and picked up the Daily Prophet. He hadn’t even straightened fully when the headline grabbed his attention. ‘Borgin and Burke Destroyed By Fire’.
The wizard photograph accompanying the article showed the familiar front of Borgin and Burkes; now resembling a black, charred relic of its former grimy glory. Wizards passing it were shaking their heads morosely. Harry turned his attention to the article.
…the not so venerated establishment, known to have dipped more than a few of its historic toes into the murky waters of the dark arts, has been almost completely incinerated. No bodies have been found in the blackened shell and the search is ongoing for the shop’s proprietors’. The current status of the investigation according to a source in the Magical Law Enforcement Department is that a ‘wizard or wizards unknown’ created a fiendfyre with the ‘express intention of destroying the building and all of its contents’. The motive for the attack is still being ascertained and as of now there are no suspects. However, there is one intriguing snippet of information that the Daily Prophet has unearthed that may have a sinister bearing on the case. Mr Borgin is known to have visited the Durmstrang School of Wizardy in the month running up to its abrupt closure due to (as yet) undisclosed tragic circumstances…
“How do they know where Borgin went?” asked Ron, who’d been reading over Harry’s shoulder. “And its good riddance to that mangy shop of theirs; human skulls, cursed necklaces and manky, mummified old hands all over the place-who cares if its gone?”
“Anyone interested in human skulls, cursed necklaces or mummified hands, I imagine,” said Harry, keeping his voice down so that their conversation wouldn’t be overhead. “But what’s this about Durmstrang? I didn’t know it had closed in ‘tragic circumstances’”.
Ron shrugged. “Neither did I, but I reckon it’s a bit weird that it has just upped and gone. I mean, it was supposed to be almost as old as Hogwarts-I remember Hermione going on once about this Durmstrang legend Krum told her about. I didn’t listen much, but I’m sure it was something to do with Slytherin leaving Hogwarts and setting up Durmstrang with this other wizard…anyway, my point is that the only times Hogwarts has nearly closed is when-”
“People have died or been in extreme danger,” finished Harry, recalling their second year when Hogwarts had come within days of closing for good after the Chamber of Secrets had been opened by Voldemort’s sixteen year old memory. The comparison brought a deep unease that blossomed like devils snare in his stomach.
“Bulgaria doesn’t have their own version of Voldemort do they?” Harry asked Ron, trying to sound as if he was joking. He felt stupid for even saying it. How could there possibly have been two dark wizards causing mayhem in Europe without anything being reported?
Instead of laughing it off, Ron looked horrified at the very idea and his voice took on a higher octave. “Bloody hell, Harry don’t be saying that! That’s all we need-not.”
Onto to Chapter Two
GENRE: action/adventure/drama/angst/romance
PAIRING(s): Harry/Ginny & Ron/Hermione
RATING: PG-13 (so far)
SUMMARY: Set almost immediately after DH (book 7) Harry Potter, along with several others from his year; including Ron and Hermione, are given the chance to re-do their seventh year at Hogwarts. Given that Voldemort is dead everyone is expecting it to be quiet year. They couldn’t have been more wrong. An ancient dark wizard with a grudge against Hogwarts and one of its original co-founders finds his way back to wreak his revenge; meaning Harry and everyone at Hogwarts are once again in mortal peril.
NOTES: This story was originally going to be Gen but I've changed my mind and will be racking up the romance'n'angst *g*
SPOILERS: YES (All seven books).
FEEDBACK: Loved and appreciated, and it keeps the muse oiled.
DISCLAIMER: Harry Potter (et all) belong to JKR and various other people who aren’t me. There is no infringement intended and no profit made.
~
Prologue
Very few of the hidden items survived the fiendfyre. The Room of Requirement itself remained fully functional, but, if you happened to be looking for somewhere to hide something forbidden, you would probably find the proffered hideaway more than a little scorched. Anything made of paper or wood had been incinerated within moments of the spell being uttered; even some of the harder wearing items made of metal had melted during the few minutes the inferno had raged.
Now, two months later and with a new term due to start within two weeks time, Argus Filch, the much despised Hogwarts caretaker was sorting through the debris and supervising a thorough wash down by the house elves. The few salvageable pieces were to be taken to the new Headmistress for a decision to be reached on what to do with them. Mrs Norris, Filch’s cat, was prowling around the very small pile with her tail twitching.
“What’s the matter, my pet?” crooned Filch, noticing Mrs Norris’ agitation. “Is the student filth upsetting your nerves? Not that I blame you. The things we’ve found would have been enough to mean a whipping not so long ago. It’s a shame it is that the old ways have died out.”
The old leather chest he’d been carrying banged down the floor too close to Mrs Norris. Letting out a yowl, she scrambled sideways and her hindquarters landed on a round polished silver mirror with a long handle. The instant her furry rear touched the mirror both ears flattened and hissing madly she streaked away and out of the open door.
Filch stared in confusion after his cat, then, searching for an explanation for her behaviour, he reached down and picked up the mirror by its long, tarnished handle. For a moment while Filch had stared into the polished surface he thought he caught a glimpse of a monkey-faced old man with a long beard. Squinting, Filch turned the mirror this way and that, until satisfied he’d imagined the scowling face, he put it back on the pile.
Chapter One
BACK TO SCHOOL
Harry Potter, The Boy Who Lived, or as Draco Malfoy his once put it, The Boy Who Scored, stared up at the ceiling of the room he was sharing with his friend Ron Weasley. It was the dead of night and he couldn’t sleep. After tossing and turning for over an hour he’d finally given up and accepted insomnia. As if to mock him, there were regular snorts and grunts from the other bed in the room. Ron’s snores were mildly irritating, probably an extension of Harry’s envy at his friend’s ability to simply slide smoothly into sleep.
Tonight was by no means the first night that sleep had eluded Harry and he was perfectly aware of the reasons why. He missed Hedwig. More, he missed, Fred, Lupin, Tonks and Dobby. He even felt a few sharp pangs over little Colin Creevey. The weeks since the Battle of Hogwarts (as it was now being called) had done little to dull the grinding pain of loss. In the last two months, Harry had found that it could drag you down like quicksand when you least expected it. He only hoped that the aching hollow would gradually fill with time. He wasn’t banking on it though; after all he had some experience. It had been over two years now since Sirius had died and he still missed him every bit as when his godfather had first died. Everyone at The Burrow was the same. The first ten days had passed in a blessed haze as the survivors buried friends and loved ones. With the passing of the numbness came tears. There were frequent bouts of weeping and it wasn’t just the women; although they didn’t feel the need to hide it as religiously as the males in the house.
The newspapers had been some tiny consolation and, given the fact that the Weasley family had all been involved; either in the Order or the DA, it was impossible to shut out an outside world that insisted on loudly proclaiming (rightly) that they’re all heroes. The paragraph dedicated to Fred had had Mrs Weasley weeping copiously over a sizzling frying pan filled with sausages.
Not that you could tell that he’d had help at all from the front pages-you had to look deeper inside the likes of the Daily Prophet to find anyone mentioned other than Harry himself; a fact that he found mortifying. His discomfort wasn’t helped by the fact that Kreacher had made a collage of clippings similar to the one Regulus Black had created decades ago, and presented it to Harry earlier that day.
The earliest article was dated the day after he’d killed Voldemort.
HE WHO MUST NOT BE NAMED; SLAIN! The brutal, if mercifully short, reign of the darkest wizard of our time has been brought to an end-by Harry Potter. Undisputedly ‘The Chosen One’, seventeen year old Mr Potter led a surprise rebellion at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft & Wizardry. Details are sketchy at this time, but sources in nearby Hogsmeade confirm that a violent, pitch battle took place between Death Eaters, teachers and students; ending in a chilling duel between the boy once known simply as The Boy Who Lived, and He Who Must Not Be Named…
With three pages dedicated to the story, the paper had gone on and on with ever wilder speculation about what had happened inside Hogwarts castle and the forest surrounding it. Some of it was true, such as Harry surviving a second killing curse (although he was mystified about how that had come out), but taking on two giants single-handed? Did he look insane? There was even a reference to Dumbeldore having left Harry a mission before he died; although, thankfully, there was no mention of Horcruxes.
Unfortunately, the next article to catch his house-elf’s eye had followed a similar theme and had made Harry squirm even harder when he’d scanned it.
DARKNESS DESTROYED. The magical community has not witnessed scenes of jubilant celebration like those pictured below for sixteen years. (The moving photograph accompanying the article was a riot of hysterically joyous movement; jammed with manically grinning faces and hands waving wands lit like sparklers) Everywhere witches and wizards are weeping for joy, both jubilant and grieving now that He Who Must Not Be Named has been finally and completely vanquished. Pictures of Harry Potter adorn every shop and home window. Banners are flying from the top of battlements, towers and zooming along behind broomsticks. The proprietors of Diagon Alley-along with the newly returned Ollivander, legendary wand-maker-have been stringing extravagant decorations from pillar to post and letting off truly spectacular fireworks ever since word first reached them of Harry Potter fulfilling his destiny. “Anybody who really knew Harry Potter could not doubt his eventual victory,” maintains Mr Ollivander. “From the moment I first met him I realised he was extraordinary. Luckily for me as it turned out.” Many who read this statement will say that it’s a pity he didn’t speak up sooner when Mr Potter, the saviour of the wizarding world, was being vilified as a liar and possible murderer of Albus Dumbledore…
The next one at least featured the Order rather than him; although they’d managed to squeeze his name in somewhere.
THICKNESSE CLAIMS IMPERIUS CURSE. Wizards up and down the country have been left reeling after stunning revelations that the recently deposed Minister for Magic, Pius Thicknesse, has been under the illegal Imperius curse for months; allowing He Must Not Be Named to penetrate every level of the Ministry. The consequences of this horrific penetration have been numerous, including; Aurors being ordered to track down anyone resisting the new regime, most especially Harry Potter and his heroic compatriots and fellow students of Hogwarts. If that isn’t bad enough readers will remember all too well the introduction of the muggle-born registration policy that led to the torture, and often murder, of innocent wizards and witches. The newly appointed temporary Minister for Magic, Kingsley Shacklebolt-a confirmed member of the Order of the Phoenix-has the unenviable job of restoring faith…
The last had been the worst. After a quick glance, Harry had stuffed the offending ‘gift’ under his pillow so the others wouldn’t see it. Kreacher would never have to know.
HOW HARRY POTTER SAVED MY LIFE. Mrs Mary Cattermole, married to Reginald Cattermole of the Ministry’s Magical Maintenance Department has given an exclusive interview, detailing how, ‘The Chosen One’, rescued her and scores of others from the clutches of accused muggle-hater, Dolores Umbridge, and her dementor-ridden court. “I was chained and surrounded by prowling dementors. I was terrified; convinced I would never see my children again-then HE came. I didn’t know who he was at first,” Mrs Cattermole admits candidly, “But then I heard one of his friends say his name. He has a beautiful stag patronus,” she says with a hint of awe. “It was so powerful and bright that looking at it hurt my eyes. Once he’d conjured it, it stampeded away the dementors and took us all to safety. I’ll never forget it-or him.” Find out more, including how young, daring Mr Potter was masquerading as the very same man who’d handed Mrs Cattermole over to dear Dolores in the first place, page 3 column 5.
Rolling onto his side and punching pillow, Harry-with more than a trace of desperation-was coming to the conclusion that if the rest of the people who’d helped him defeat Voldemort were to get their fair share of front-page glory, he was going to have give an interview and spell out the truth. Under the covers, he shuddered at the thought of another one-on-one with Rita ‘Acid Quill’ Skeeter.
On second thoughts Harry mused, maybe he should persuade Neville to do the interview, or even Luna. That idea made him smile fully for the first time all day. A Ravenclaw from Ginny’s year, Luna Lovegood was a dreamy, other-worldy girl with a habit of stating indisputable and uncomfortable truths. Still, it would certainly make interesting reading he thought and his grin widened. Harry spent the next quarter of an hour imagining the kind of stuff she’d come out with, and ended up amused and relaxed enough to finally drift off to sleep.
~
Harry woke abruptly when someone sat down next to his hip on the camp bed. Bone tired, he didn’t sit up, but merely rolled over and scowled at the sun-haloed, bushy-haired and blurred outline that had caused him to waken. “Whasmatter?”
“I’m so sorry, Harry,” said a contrite Hermione, pushing his glasses very gently onto his face. “I know you’re sleeping poorly and I wouldn’t wake you up for the world, except Professor McGonagall is here and asking to speak to all three of us.”
Harry’s sluggish brain didn’t clear just because his eyesight had sharpened enough to actually see Hermione’s concerned gaze raking his wan, thin face. “Professor McGonagall is here?” he repeated dumbly, parroting without understanding.
“Yes,” she nodded. “She says she wants to the three of us together.”
Harry sat up so fast his head spun as possible reasons for such a visit dive-bombed the sleep fog away. “Did she say why?” he asked, worry clear in his tone. Even knowing Voldemort was dead, he’d had numerous nightmares showing him the opposite. One came back to haunt him; Voldemort returning as the flailing, choking and deformed creature he’d seen in his head when he’d met the dead (and yet still lively) Dumbledore at Kings Cross Station.
“Not, but she doesn’t look upset or anything,” Hermione rushed to reassure him. “Mrs Weasley offered her breakfast and Professor McGonagall agreed. I doubt she’d be hungry if she had come to delivery bad news, do you?”
“No, I suppose not. Good point.”
At that moment, Ron burst into the room, all red hair and freckles and his lanky frame covered in the usual t-shirt and jeans. “C’mon, get up, Harry. I’m bursting to know why McGonagall’s turned up and the old bat’s refusing to drop even a hint until we’re all there.”
Chivvied along by his two best friends, Harry pulled on his own jeans and a faded T-shirt that was now tight across his shoulders, and clattered down the stairs towards the cheery dining room. As usual it was filled with the mouth watering smells of egg, bacon, toast and kippers. Ginny was already at the table, chin cupped in her hands and eyes swollen as evidence that she’d already had a bout of crying before coming down. Despite the blotchy proof of tears she was still pretty. Looking at her hurt him so Harry looked quickly away. Behind her daughter, Mrs Weasley was at the stove, flipping eggs with her wand. At the head of the table, Professor McGonagall gave Ginny’s arm one last comforting pat and then smiled at Harry.
“Good morning, Harry,” she said, adding with just a trace of her usual sarcasm, “It’s nice to see you being such an early bird on a fine summer morning like this.”
He couldn’t answer immediately, undone by the fact that she’d called him Harry and not Potter. It reinforced the fact that his life had changed irrevocably. There was no more Hogwarts for him now and insufficient qualifications for the only occupation he’d ever considered. “Morning,” he mumbled and slid into a seat. Hermione took the seat opposite him and Ron the one next to her.
“Morning, Harry, dear,” greeted Mrs Weasley, bustling over with the pan in hand and sliding two fried eggs onto his plate. “Bacon and sausage will just be two ticks. Help yourself to bread, Minerva,” she said as an aside to Professor McGonagall.
The moment the words were out of her mouth a freshly baked loaf sailed out of the oven, landing expertly on the bread board. Immediately the knife rose to slice it, glinting in the golden sun shining in through the kitchen window. Harry took two of the fragrant, warm slices and made an egg sandwich while he waited for the meat. Taking a bite, Harry realised he couldn’t ask the professor why she was there with his mouth full and wished he’d waited to start eating.
Luckily, Ron wasn’t so encumbered; neither was Hermione who got there first, “We’re all here now, Professor,” she prodded, far more politely than Ron had been about to do.
“So you are, Miss Granger,” agreed McGonagall, “and, as such, I’ll get to the point. None of you completed your NEWTS.”
There was a stunned silence. “We were kind of busy,” Ron muttered defensively when his mother hissed an aggrieved agreement. “Not to mention that Snape would have handed us over to Voldemort the second we turned up if we’d been stupid enough to try it.” Ron had finally dropped his phobia about saying the name when he’d seen the feeble and shrunken remains of the thoroughly defeated dark wizard.
Harry just about managed to bite back the words, ‘Professor Snape.’ He was still coming to terms with this new respect he suddenly had for a teacher he’d loathed for six years, so advertising it to Ron was out of the question-yet.
“Be that as it may,” said McGonagall crisply. “You don’t have such excuses this year, do you?”
Hermione who had been fretting with increasing furore over this self-same topic went still, frozen with either trepidation or hope (perhaps both) and staring wide-eyed at the new Headmistress of Hogwarts.
Harry had swallowed his mouthful, so he could ask, “But we’re too old now aren’t we, Professor? I mean, there’ll be Ginny’s year in Seventh won’t there?”
“That is very true, Harry,” McGonagall agreed, “But, there are quite a few students from the previous seventh year that were unable to complete their studies besides yourself; Neville Longbottom, Dean Thompson and Seamus Finnigan to name just a few. Personally, I think it would be extremely remiss of Hogwarts not to give you the opportunity to complete your education given the …extenuating circumstances shall we say.”
When they didn’t reply straight away, she dropped her fork and glared at Harry. “Do you not still wish to become an Auror, Potter?”
The return of his surname was ridiculously, warmingly familiar. Still, he grimaced. “I do…I just hadn’t thought that I could…”
McGonagall brushed his insecurities aside. “Oh, I’m sure they’d take you without any NEWTS given what you’ve accomplished, but to my mind that would be a mistake,” she said firmly. Harry goggled at her. He hadn’t considered just asking if they’d have him anyway. McGonagall didn’t seem to notice the effect of her words and continued, “As skilled as you undoubtedly are at ridding us of dark wizards already you must never ignore the basics, Potter. There are important things we teachers can still teach you.” Having said that, she finished truculently, “and I for one want the opportunity to do so.”
“All three of us?” squeaked Hermione, white with the notion that she might be excluded.
“Of course all three of you,” was the brusque retort, “And more of your year if they wish it. The situation last year at Hogwarts was hardly usual for many students. It’ll be a stretch to accommodate so many additional seventh years, but I’m sure we’ll manage somehow.”
Across from him, Ginny was waiting pale-faced and tense for their answer although she didn’t look at Harry. He wondered miserably if she was hoping he’d say no to going back to Hogwarts. Looking anywhere but at his ex-girlfriend, Harry stared at Ron whose own eyes were bouncing from his gesticulating mother (anxious for him to agree), to Hermione and finally to Harry. Finally, in tandem they said, “We’ll be there.”
~
Once they’d agreed, Professor McGonagall prepared to depart, thanking Molly for her breakfast and handing them each their book lists. Mrs Weasley swiped them out of their hands, cheerfully announcing an imminent trip to Diagon Alley. Harry got the distinct impression that she was afraid to wait in case the three of them changed their minds about returning to Hogwarts. He could have told her not to worry, that he was delighted and relieved to be allowed to complete his final year, but she didn’t give him a chance to speak; too busy listing all of the things they would need to purchase now that there were four of them to outfit for school.
The planned visit to Diagon Alley suffered a set-back, however, when Mr Weasley was told about it that evening over dinner. Tall, thin and with a face that was usually set in genial lines, Arthur Weasley only retained remnants of the bright red hair that he’d passed onto his seven children. “Now, Molly,” he said as they all sat down to steak and kidney pie with mashed potatoes. “You can’t take Harry to Diagon Alley on your own. In the current climate you’ll be mobbed the second anybody realises he’s there.”
Stunned at that statement, Harry’s hand froze with the gravy jug half poised to pour some of the thick, rich contents over his dinner. He looked up, but for some inexplicable reason Mr Weasley avoided his eyes.
“Oh, really, do you think so?” said Mrs Weasley, disconcerted. “I just assumed that with the danger over…”
“Yeah, so did I,” piped up Ron, looking thoroughly confused. Next to him and across from Harry, Hermione was wearing her ‘of course, why didn’t I think of that’ face.
“Yes, well, Voldemort might be dead, but there are still Death Eaters on the loose, Ron. The Ministry is hunting them down but it’s still too soon to relax completely. Anyway, it’s not enemies I’m worried about,” Mr Weasley admitted ruefully. “Harry’s fame…well, let’s just say that it would make visits to wizard only places a little tricky right now. I doubt you’d get two ft without attracting a horde of admirers.” Reaching over he patted his wife’s hand. “I’m sorry if it upsets your plans, but I really do think, my dear, that it would be better for you to wait until Saturday when I can come with you?”
“I didn’t notice anything at Ministry when we went with Voldemort’s body, or at the memorial.” Harry protested. “I wasn’t mobbed either time and there were loads of people milling around.” He was uneasy over Mr Weasley’s inability to look him in the eye, and wondering if Ron’s dad was unhappy over how much attention, he, Harry was getting when his own family had played just as big a part in saving the wizarding world?
“Actually, Harry,” it was Hermione who answered his unspoken question, “You were distracted, almost detached; which is hardly surprising given everything that had happened,” she added hastily when he gave her a dark look. “You probably didn’t notice how much protection we all had…”
“Protection,” said Ron, around a mouthful of potato and spouts, “What protection? I didn’t see any protection either.”
“Hermione’s right,” said Mr Weasley. “Kingsley Shacklebolt arranged it so that no one except friends, family or members of the order could get close to you. There were dozens of Aurors there as well as standard law enforcement wizards keeping everyone back. You won’t have that in Diagon Alley; which is why I’d rather you didn’t go alone.”
“Oh, well, if you say so, Arthur,” agreed Mrs Weasley with a sigh at the delay. “Are you sure you can get the time off, though?”
“Oh, don’t worry about that. I only have to ask for a favour these days and people are falling over to help me.” Mr Weasleys smile was so reminiscent of the twins that Harry got a jolt in his stomach at the sight.
~
So it was three days later when Harry, Hermione and the Weasleys got out of a Ministry car outside the Leaky Cauldron. The pub itself was full in a way Harry hadn’t seen in two years. The spectre of Voldemort rising up again had caused the wizarding community to draw in on itself. People had stayed at home, never venturing out unless absolutely necessary. Socialising had been strictly limited to intimate acquaintances, and furtive even then. Not so now. The din of unfettered conversation washed over them as they stepped through the door into the candle-lit gloom.
Tom, the inn-keeper, a wizened, toothless old man, did a double-take when he spotted Harry wending his way through the ebullient, chattering throng. “Bless me! It’s Harry Potter!”
It was as if a mute button had pushed. Instantly all conversation ceased.
Harry was uneasily reminded of the very first time he’d walked into the Leaky Cauldron with Hagrid as a short and skinny eleven years old. Once again every eye was on him. Nobody moved for a full ten seconds; then they converged on him. The people nearest him grabbed his hands and pumped them so enthusiastically that both shoulders soon felt wrenched. Others simply reached out to touch some part of him, apparently not noticing that they were jostling him to and fro. If that wasn’t alarming enough, the noise was deafening and Harry could no longer see Hermione, Ron or Ginny who had been flanking him moments before.
“Upon my word…such an honour, Mr Potter.”
“…have no idea how much it means…”
“I whispered a protective charm every time I heard your name, dear….least I could do.”
“…could kiss you…daughter safe…”
“…never thought I’d get to meet you…incredible…”
“Nice to meet you too,” said Harry to nobody in particular, looking around wildly. “Look, this is great, but I, er, need to find my friends.”
From a few feet away, Harry could hear Mr and Mrs Weasley protesting and trying to push through but couldn’t see them. His own protests were lost in the babble of voices. Harry had another flashback, this time to the immediate aftermath of his final duel with Voldemort when the surviving Hogwarts fighters had run at him, hugging, pulling or patting any part of they could reach. Back in the present, Harry tried to push his way through the crowd without hurting anyone, desperate to reach free air, but unable to make any headway.
All of a sudden there was a sharp CRACK. Then a booming voice, “Tha’s enough of THA’. Let ‘im through now. Come on. ‘E can’t breathe with yer lot crowding roun’.”
Obediently, and as if just noticing how alarmed and rumpled Harry was now looking, witches and wizards fell back with exclamations of dismay.
“I’m so sorry, dear boy.”
“Oh, gracious, I didn’t realise…”
“Apologies, Mr Potter. I simply wanted to thank you…”
“Hagrid,” Harry greeted happily, ignoring everyone else and walking (a little shakily) to meet his half giant friend who was twice as tall as most men and three times as wide. “I didn’t know you were going to be here. It’s really great to see you.”
“Hi, Hagrid,” chorused Hermione and Ginny as they finally managed to push their way through, too. Ron merely clapped him on the back, speechless and grateful for the rescue. He was looking more than a little unkempt himself having obviously shared in the too enthusiastic greetings of admirers. The fact that Hermione and Ginny were looking a lot less mussed suggested that Ron had acted the gentleman and shielded them. Harry caught Ginny’s eye and wished he hadn’t when she looked away almost immediately.
Beetle dark eyes crinkled in a smile over a wild tangle of beard. “Mornin’ yer lot. Nice to yer too Harry. Arthur asked me ta come and meet yer,” said Hagrid, nodding to Mr and Mrs Weasley who had just joined the group. “Mornin’, Arthur, Molly. I see why yer wanted me ta come.”
“And I’m very glad I did ask you,” agreed Mr Weasley feelingly. “Shall we go through before the people who were stuck at the back of the crowd decide now is the time to try and shake Harry’s hand?”
“And mine,” interjected Ron. “My back’s been slapped so much it feels like it’s been kicked by a mad hippogriff.”
Hermione offered him a smile of sympathy just as a red-faced Mrs Weasley got her breath back. “Morning, Hagrid, and yes, let’s go,” she said, throwing a baleful look at the slowly dispersing crowd. “We’ve got a lot of shopping to do. All four of them need new robes, and Harry needs new everything so he tells me.”
“Gringotts first then, I reckon,” said Hagrid, turning to lead the way to the back of the pub.
Outside and past the archway from the Leaky Cauldron, Harry was pleased to see that the dark pall that had cast an enormous shadow over Diagon Alley had lifted. The shops lining the streets were no longer plastered in wanted posters complete with leering photographs of Death Eaters, nor, even more happily, ones of himself as ‘Undesirable Number One.’
The shops devoted to the Dark Arts had similarly disappeared, the proprietors’ likely forced to slink back to Knockturn Alley with its narrow, dark and dank street. The beggars were also gone, replaced once more by wizards and witches cheerfully browsing fantastic displays in gleaming shop windows. Even Florean Fortesques ice-cream parlour was open again; sadly without Florean himself. Walking down the familiar street, Harry was forced to admit that the Daily Prophet had got its fact right for once-there was a definite air of jubilation. He might even have felt proud for his part in achieving that if not for his arms still aching from being thanked too vigorously already.
The white marble façade of Gringotts, the wizarding bank run by goblins, gleamed in the distance at the end of the street. Harry glanced at Hermione and Ron and saw by the trepidation on their faces that (like him) they were remembering the last time they’d entered it. “Erm, Hagrid,” said Harry, slowing his footsteps, “I don’t think it would be a good idea for Ron, Hermione or me to go into Gringotts. We, erm-”
“We impersonated a couple of Death Eater customers, imperiused one of the goblins, stole from a high security vault and destroyed half the building when we escaped on one of their dragons,” Ron finished for him. “Somehow, I can’t see them just letting us saunter in...more like chuck us in front of one of those maniac carts they use to get about.”
“Ah, don’ you worry about that yer two,” said Hagrid, shaking his great big head and chuckling. “They won’t like wha’ yer did, but if they won’ upset yer, or risk upsetting three-quarters of their other wizard customers. Goblins are more canny than that, eh.”
“If you say so,” said Ron, hunching his shoulders and looking far from convinced.
“What Hagrid says makes sense,” said Hermione, linking her arms through both of theirs, hurrying them up to catch up with Ginny and Mr and Mrs Weasley. “Come on, let’s not lag behind. We’ve got lucky so far in that no-one’s realised Harry’s here, but there’s no telling how long that’ll last. The sooner we’re done here the better. It’ll be bedlam if they spot him and I personally don’t want a repeat of the Leaky Cauldron.”
Harry tucked in his chin and made a concerted effort not to catch anyone’s eye. He fervently wished he’d thought to bring his invisibility cloak. “And you think I do?” he growled as they walked up the marble steps to meet the waiting Weasleys.
“Of course you don’t,” Hermione soothed, gulping a little as she caught sight of the liveried goblin holding the doors open for an elderly witch in a lavender cloak walking ahead of them.
Unexpectedly, the goblin bowed very low as they trooped past him. Once they were passed him, Hagrid grinned and winked at them. “Told yer didn’ I.”
Half an hour later and carrying money bags heavy with gold galleons, silver sickles and bronze knuts, they walked back out. Hagrid took up the rear of their little group to keep anyone following too closely. Their reception in the bank hadn’t been as bad as the pub (possibly the more formal atmosphere in Gringotts was to be thanked for that), but they’d been bowed at and whispered about enough to know that the same grateful sentiment existed here too. However, when they had been stopped, Harry had found he could be a lot more patient due to the fact that Hermione and Ron drew almost as much attention as he himself.
He wasn’t the only one pleased with that fact; Ron was pink-eared and Hermione was pink-cheeked. He slid them a grin and got one back in return. Ron’s walk developed a hint of a strut as they followed his parents to ‘Madam Malkin’s Robes for All Occasions’. They stopped outside.
“There are too many of us to go in together,” said Mrs Weasley, decisively. “Arthur, you take Harry and Ron in first to get measured up and I'll take Ginny and Hermione to get their books at Flourish and Blotts. We can swap over later.”
She turned to the massive figure of Hagrid, but he spoke first, “I’ll stay with these two (he jerked his thumb towards Harry and Ron) and keep an eye from outside. I won’ go in though if yer don’ mind? It’s a bit cramped, yer see.”
Nobody did mind and with the plan decided they separated. Harry, Ron and Mr Weasley entered the robe shop. The back of the shop was hidden from view by racks of robes in various colours. There were voices coming from behind the robes indicating that Madam Malkin was already concentrating on a customer. That wasn’t what made Harry groan. What did was the sight of the pale-haired and pale faced woman and son sitting waiting to be served; Draco and his mother Narcissa Malfoy.
“Ugh,” grunted Ron feelingly, muttering in an undertone, “just who I didn’t want to see-or ever set eyes on again, preferably.”
Harry agreed wholeheartedly, however he couldn’t help noticing the huge difference in the Malfoys; gone was the arrogance and superiority of their last meeting in this very shop. Mr Weasley seemed to falter at the sight of Narcissa Malfoy, then recovered and nodded politely to her. Mother and son gave every indication of wishing the floor would swallow them up. After a pause, Narcissa Malfoy nodded back and carefully placed a courtesy copy of today’s Daily Prophet back on the low wooden table in front of her.
Draco Malfoy didn’t acknowledge them at all; which was a big improvement on previous meetings, and likely due to the fact that it was Harry’s testimony that saved Draco’s mother from joining his father in Azkaban.
There were three spindle-backed wooden chairs supplied for customers forced to wait. The Malfoys were occupying two of them. Harry and Ron remained standing so Mr Weasley took the final seat. Nobody spoke and the atmosphere was heavy with the ghost of old allegiances. Draco was sitting so tight, tense and silent he reminded Harry of that time he’d seen him through Voldemort’s mind, sitting at a table in his family’s manor, surrounded by Death Eaters and trying not to watch Hogwarts previous muggle-studies teacher as she hung suspended several feet above him.
Against all inclination and instinct sympathy prickled. Not liking the alien sensation (alien when related to a boy he’d despised for seven years) and needing to do something, Harry bent down and picked up the Daily Prophet. He hadn’t even straightened fully when the headline grabbed his attention. ‘Borgin and Burke Destroyed By Fire’.
The wizard photograph accompanying the article showed the familiar front of Borgin and Burkes; now resembling a black, charred relic of its former grimy glory. Wizards passing it were shaking their heads morosely. Harry turned his attention to the article.
…the not so venerated establishment, known to have dipped more than a few of its historic toes into the murky waters of the dark arts, has been almost completely incinerated. No bodies have been found in the blackened shell and the search is ongoing for the shop’s proprietors’. The current status of the investigation according to a source in the Magical Law Enforcement Department is that a ‘wizard or wizards unknown’ created a fiendfyre with the ‘express intention of destroying the building and all of its contents’. The motive for the attack is still being ascertained and as of now there are no suspects. However, there is one intriguing snippet of information that the Daily Prophet has unearthed that may have a sinister bearing on the case. Mr Borgin is known to have visited the Durmstrang School of Wizardy in the month running up to its abrupt closure due to (as yet) undisclosed tragic circumstances…
“How do they know where Borgin went?” asked Ron, who’d been reading over Harry’s shoulder. “And its good riddance to that mangy shop of theirs; human skulls, cursed necklaces and manky, mummified old hands all over the place-who cares if its gone?”
“Anyone interested in human skulls, cursed necklaces or mummified hands, I imagine,” said Harry, keeping his voice down so that their conversation wouldn’t be overhead. “But what’s this about Durmstrang? I didn’t know it had closed in ‘tragic circumstances’”.
Ron shrugged. “Neither did I, but I reckon it’s a bit weird that it has just upped and gone. I mean, it was supposed to be almost as old as Hogwarts-I remember Hermione going on once about this Durmstrang legend Krum told her about. I didn’t listen much, but I’m sure it was something to do with Slytherin leaving Hogwarts and setting up Durmstrang with this other wizard…anyway, my point is that the only times Hogwarts has nearly closed is when-”
“People have died or been in extreme danger,” finished Harry, recalling their second year when Hogwarts had come within days of closing for good after the Chamber of Secrets had been opened by Voldemort’s sixteen year old memory. The comparison brought a deep unease that blossomed like devils snare in his stomach.
“Bulgaria doesn’t have their own version of Voldemort do they?” Harry asked Ron, trying to sound as if he was joking. He felt stupid for even saying it. How could there possibly have been two dark wizards causing mayhem in Europe without anything being reported?
Instead of laughing it off, Ron looked horrified at the very idea and his voice took on a higher octave. “Bloody hell, Harry don’t be saying that! That’s all we need-not.”
Onto to Chapter Two