The Potter Conspiracy

A/N: Thanks to all who have read and reviewed.  Feedback is greatly appreciated!

Disclaimer: I don’t own Harry Potter. JKR and her partners do.

Chapter Twelve – Ignorance Is Bliss

October 7, 1995 – Hogwarts, outside the Headmaster’s Office

Amelia Bones took a deep breath and gave her companion a questioning look.  Algernon Croaker nodded grimly at her, his short silver hair and goatee giving him the air of a disgruntled professor.  The duo had set up a meeting with Albus Dumbledore, and were about to demand answers to some very important questions.

Bones had informed her longtime ally and fellow Department Head of Harry Potter’s revelations, and at first he didn’t believe her.  He had stroked his goatee and frowned condescendingly at her.  Then she had showed him the memory of Voldemort’s rebirth, and he was made a believer.

Though not as immediately angry at Dumbledore, Croaker was more mystified than Bones at what he had witnessed in the pensieve.  It should not have been possible.  He knew of no way for the dead to be resurrected, and if some new and effective method had been discovered, it was truly an ominous turn of events.

The pair straightened their backs as the gargoyle moved aside to admit them.  They had agreed on their strategy for approaching the Headmaster, which included waiting a day for Croaker to study Harry Potter’s memory more carefully.  He had never seen anything like it, neither the rebirth nor the mysterious victory that Potter had won over the newly-resurrected Dark Lord.  That uncertainty troubled him.

Croaker was very aware of the potential danger they faced in confronting Dumbledore—if he was capable of trying to sacrifice Harry Potter, his reaction to them would be unpredictable—and so they had taken steps to ensure their safety on his turf.  Dumbledore needed their support too much to harm them, but he might try to question and then obliviate them.

As they approached the door at the top of the stairs, it opened of its own accord and they saw the Headmaster looking down upon them.

“Welcome Amelia,” he smiled.  “Algernon,” he nodded.

“Albus,” they both acknowledged.

“Do come in,” Dumbledore said, leading them into the office.  “Can I offer you some refreshment?  A lemon drop, perhaps?” he asked, gesturing for them to take seats.

“No thank you, Albus,” Amelia answered for the both of them as they sat down.  “We are here to discuss the return of Voldemort and why you seem hell bent on having Harry Potter killed.”

The bluntness of the response caught Dumbledore off-guard, and the look of geniality faded quickly from his face.  His right hand twitched, instinctively desiring to draw his wand.

Croaker raised his hand.  “Don’t even think about drawing that wand, Albus.  You can’t kill us, and we’ve taken steps to insure that an obliviation would fail.  If we leave this office without our memories, you’re not going to like the consequences.”

Dumbledore’s jaw clenched as he considered how to respond to this situation.  Somehow Harry Potter had gotten in touch with Director Bones, and she had believed his story.  Damn, thought Dumbledore grimly.  I can’t afford to make enemies of Amelia and Algernon right now.  Better see how much they know.

“I’m not sure I understand what you mean,” Dumbledore smiled tightly.  “To what precisely are you referring?”

“Can it, Albus,” Bones glowered.  “We’ve both seen Potter’s memories of Voldemort’s resurrection, and the boy believes that you intend to have him killed.  From what I’ve seen he’s not just being paranoid.  We have two questions for you.  Just why in the name of Merlin did you fail to inform us of the Dark Lord’s return, and what are your plans for Harry Potter?”

Dumbledore didn’t move a muscle as he thought furiously.  So Harry is likely in their custody, he thought.  I won’t be able to get to him without convincing them of the truth.  Just how much I can reveal here?

“Amelia, Algernon,” he sighed, “I do apologize for concealing the Dark Lord’s return from you, but it was necessary.  There are things happening that cannot become public knowledge.  Surely you don’t believe that I would act against the interests of the wizarding world?”

“I don’t know what I believe right now, Albus,” Croaker snapped, “so stop pussy-footing around and tell us what the hell is going on.  You know we’re not here to arrest you.”

Dumbledore considered Croaker in silence for a few moments.  They were not friendly with each other, but Dumbledore respected his knowledge and did not ordinarily consider him an adversary.

“There are things that I am not at liberty to disclose, even to you,” he said evenly.  “Voldemort found a way to ensure a kind of immortality, and Harry Potter is an essential part of destroying him forever.  That is all that I can safely tell you, and I must insist that you return Mr. Potter to my custody immediately.  I am his rightful guardian, and I assure you that I harbor him no ill-will.”

“Albus,” Croaker growled, “you are speaking to the Head Unspeakable and the Director of the DMLE.  We are obligated to protect the wizarding world even more so than you are, and you won’t be seeing Harry Potter again until you come clean.  I’ve never seen a successful attempt at immortality, and I need to know what you know.  Immediately.  If there is some new evil upon us, you don’t have the right to keep that information to yourself.”

Dumbledore sighed and removed his glasses.  He rubbed his eyes wearily.  He was going to have to give them something to regain their trust and get his hands on Harry.

“Very well.  Before his first encounter with Mr. Potter, the Dark Lord discovered a dark ritual that would allow him to cheat death.  He tried to use Mr. Potter’s death as part of that ritual, but something went wrong and it ended up disembodying him.  He had performed this ritual before, and it allowed him to survive his encounter with young Harry.  I can say no more than that, other than it is imperative that you allow Mr. Potter to return to Hogwarts.”

Amelia looked between Dumbledore and Croaker in confusion.  This was not her area of expertise, and she wasn’t sure what rituals Dumbledore might be referring to.

Croaker furrowed his brow in irritation.  “Albus, I know more about dark rituals than most anyone in Britain, so there’s no reason for you to be so tight-lipped.  You said he planned to use the boy’s death…you…you’re not referring to horcruxes are you?”

The sudden dilation of Dumbledore’s pupils gave Croaker his answer.

“Bloody hell, Albus,” Croaker swore.  “Are you joking?  Your great sodding secret is that the Dark Lord created horcruxes?”

Dumbledore paled and responded earnestly. “That information must be considered top secret, Algernon.  We cannot allow the existence of such a ritual to become public knowledge, or it would destroy us.  I have searched out and destroyed all of the cursed artifacts that I could find.  I have every hope that the next time the Dark Lord is killed, he will not be able to return.”

Croaker looked at Dumbledore incredulously, wondering if he were serious.

“Albus,” he said quietly.  “I don’t know how the Dark Lord managed to return, but if you think it’s because he created horcruxes then you’re just as insane as he is.  They don’t work.”

This seemingly absurd claim left Dumbledore nonplussed.  “I…I’m afraid I don’t understand what you mean, Algernon.  How can you say that horcruxes don’t work, when obviously they do?  The Dark Lord is among us again.”

“Albus,” Croaker replied with some heat, “what made you think that the Dark Lord had horcruxes in the first place?  Explain.”

“Well, Algernon,” he retorted with some heat of his own, “aside from the fact that I’ve already destroyed several of the abominations, I know that he was trying to create one on that Halloween in 1981.  I saw young Harry’s memories of what happened that night.”

Croaker digested this information for almost ten seconds before he responded.

“First, Albus, you are going to show us exactly what you know.  I want to see those bloody memories, and I mean now.  You don’t know half what you think you do about the Dark Arts.  I have spent 100 years researching every aspect of them, and let me assure you that horcruxes are not the reason that Voldemort has returned.  They do not work, Dumbledore.  If you had told me of your suspicions a decade go, I could have disabused you of your foolishness.”

Dumbledore looked between his two guests in vexation, not used to being insulted with such impunity.

“I respect your acumen, Algernon, truly I do, but you give me too little credit.  The horcrux ritual is an extraordinarily old and powerful piece of soul magic, and I went to great pains to discover information about it.  Clearly your understanding of them is limited.”

Croaker snorted at Dumbledore.  “You bloody arrogant arsewipe,” he nearly laughed.  “If you’re such an expert on the mysteries of magic, Albus, please tell me when and where the concept of the horcrux originated.”

Dumbledore looked confused at why he was being asked such a question, but responded anyway.  “Approximately 4,000 years ago in ancient Egypt, and I’ll thank you to keep a civil tongue.”

Croaker nodded in agreement.  “That’s right, Albus, that’s right.  Now permit me to ask you another question.  Do you see any 4,000-year-old Egyptian Dark Lords running around?”

Dumbledore narrowed his eyes at Croaker, but didn’t respond to the glib question.

Croaker continued with derision.  “No?  Why not?  Where’s Salazar Slytherin these days?  Or all the other so-called ‘Dark Lords’ that have sprung up throughout the centuries?  Dumbledore, do you honestly think that somebody, somewhere along the way, wouldn’t have managed to successfully protect one?”

Dumbledore made no answer, but had an unbecoming look of befuddlement on his face.

Croaker shook his head as his temper flared.  “Do you know why they’re not still kicking, Albus? Because they…don’t….bloody…work!” he hissed.

“But…” Dumbledore protested weakly, utterly confused for the first time in decades.  “But…how did Voldemort return then, and why isn’t this well-known?”

“I don’t know how he came back, Albus, but it wasn’t through a horcrux.  The soul—if that’s what it is—that is contained in a horcrux also dies when its creator dies.  My best guess at this point is that the link that was created between Mr. Potter and the Dark Lord during the ritual somehow allowed him to survive that deflected killing curse.  The lad’s magic may have sustained him somehow.  I just don’t know yet…”

“As to your second question, most of the information on the horcrux ritual has been lost or destroyed.  Some new wanker discovers them, and thinks he’s found a way to become a god.  He’s not likely to share that information with others, is he now?  The whole point of them is to keep them a secret, safe from destruction,” Croaker finished.

Dumbledore’s mouth had slipped open slightly as Croaker ranted at him.  Perhaps I should have consulted with someone after all, he thought with dread.

Bones was listening in rapt attention as the two old men confronted each other.

“Now,” Croaker continued in a low voice, “since we’ve established just how misinformed you are about the nature of the Dark Arts, let us continue by seeing what other colossal mistakes you’ve made.  You show us that memory, Albus, before your ignorance dooms the entire wizarding world.”

Dumbledore rubbed his forehead and thought furiously, trying to digest this new information.  Some of what Croaker said made sense.  If horcruxes did work, wouldn’t someone have achieved immortality long before Voldemort?  But then how had he managed to come back?  He was, admittedly, at a loss.

“Alright,” sighed Dumbledore, rising from his chair.  “I can see your point, Algernon, but that still leaves us with the fact that the Dark Lord has returned.  I will show you my memory of his first encounter with Harry; perhaps you can see something I missed.”

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When the trio emerged from Dumbledore’s pensieve ten minutes later, Bones looked like she might be sick.  She had not known the Potters well, but to see Lily Potter murdered in such cold blood made her heartsick.  And the ritual that the Dark Lord had performed, intending to murder an infant, was truly repellent.

When they seated themselves again, Croaker regarded Dumbledore shrewdly.

“Alright, Albus, I think I see what you’ve been up to.  You think that Voldemort screwed up and made a horcrux out of Potter, that the lad has to die to ensure the Dark Lord’s destruction.  You’re likely mistaken about that, but why didn’t you kill the child as an infant, rather than let him grow up?”

Dumbledore flushed slightly at having his most secret machinations pointed out so bluntly.  He wasn’t sure he had an answer that would satisfy them.

“Harry is not merely a horcrux,” he said resignedly.  “And even if he isn’t, it does not change his destiny.  There is a prophecy.  Harry must die at the hands of the Dark Lord if we are to vanquish him forever.”

Bones and Croaker exchanged looks.  Prophecies were usually much more ambiguous than that, and neither was aware of a prophecy related to Harry Potter.

“What does the prophecy say, Albus, and who made it?” Bones asked.

Now Dumbledore was trapped.  So far he could justify his behavior toward Harry, but this was precisely why he had not wanted Bones or anyone else informed of the Dark Lord’s return.  They might not approve of his plans for Harry, and he could not afford to have powerful opponents in the Ministry thwarting his plans to end the war.  Revealing the prophecy now might only make it harder to get his hands on Harry, and Croaker would not be fooled by a fake one.

“I cannot say,” Dumbledore said.  “The prophecy was made to me by a reliable seer, and it is not safe for me to divulge its contents, even to you.”

Croaker closed his eyes and sighed.  “Which is to say that you’ve messed up again, Albus, and you don’t want anyone to know.  You have no legitimate reason to conceal a prophecy from myself or Madam Bones.”

“Nevertheless,” Dumbledore insisted, “that prophecy shall not be divulged today.  And I grow weary of your condescension, Algernon.  I have taken steps to make sure that Voldemort is destroyed forever.  The status of Voldemort’s horcruxes does not change the fact that Mr. Potter must die in order for the Dark Lord to die.  It is unfortunate, and I wish it were not so, but it is.  If you do not return Mr. Potter to me immediately, you will have the blood of thousands on your hands.  You must heed me.”

The pair considered Dumbledore in silence.  He certainly seemed earnest in his belief, but Bones was incensed over being kept in the dark about such important matters.

“You’ve given us no reason to do so,” she said heatedly.  “You’ve concealed the return of Voldemort from those who must know, you’ve apparently made a serious mistake with regard to these ‘horcruxes,’ and you’ve confirmed my suspicions about what you’ve done to that boy’s magic.  You put a prisoner’s block on him, didn’t you, Albus?”

Dumbledore made no response, but eyed Bones coolly.

“You have nothing to say, Albus?  What if you’re wrong?  You may have destroyed the boy’s magic for no reason!”

“I am not wrong,” Dumbledore said quietly.  “I have thought this through for years, Amelia, and I am absolutely certain that this is the only way forward.  That block will only give us added insurance that the prophecy will be fulfilled as it should be.”

“Bloody hell, Albus!”  Bones snapped, having lost all patience with the man.

“We are not your students!  You are appointed to your position just as I am, and you are not the final authority on all matters of magic!  You are the supposed leader of the Light, and here you are performing illegal dark binding rituals on teenagers!  And you have the arrogance to refuse to say why!  If I could, Albus, I swear I’d see you in Azkaban.  Once we take out Voldemort, I may see you there anyway.”

“What happens if you were to die, Albus?” Croaker added.  “This supposedly essential secret information you possess—how is anyone else supposed to make use of it?  You have no right to conceal that prophecy, legally or morally.”

“And you don’t have all the facts, Algernon,” Dumbledore glared at him.  “The plain truth of the matter is that Harry Potter must die—and as soon as possible—if we are to defeat the Dark Lord.  I am not the one who is hindering the defeat of Voldemort.  If you refuse to hand over Harry Potter, you will be doing so.”

He was met with silence again.

Finally Croaker responded.  “Then we are at an impasse, Albus.  I frankly don’t trust you.  Something about this whole business just reeks.  You make unilateral decisions that affect all of us, based on secret information that you refuse to divulge.  When you overcome your arrogance and give us a good enough reason to send the boy to his death, then we’ll talk.  The clock is ticking, so I suggest you find some humility posthaste.”

Their patience at an end, Bones and Croaker stood to depart.  Croaker kept a wary eye on him as they left the office, but Dumbledore made no move to restrain them.  He watched them go in silence, contemplating just how complicated this situation was becoming.  He was unsure of his next move.

He had made a fateful decision many years ago, one that balanced the life of a single child against the lives of thousands.  He still believed in the rightness of his choice, but could he convince others of it?  It was never supposed to come to this, he thought mournfully.

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Malfoy Manor, The Library

While Albus Dumbledore was contemplating how to remove Harry Potter from Amelia Bones’ protection, Lucius Malfoy was clenching his teeth in frustration as he stared at the blueprints to Azkaban prison.  He was in his personal library, one of the few places in his own home where he could expect to be free of molestation, and the only place he felt free to express his frustrations with his ‘beloved’ master.

“Tibby!” he bellowed, and a tiny, juvenile house elf popped meekly into his presence.

“You is calling Tibby, Master?”

“Bring me a small snifter of cognac, elf—draw it from the 200-year cask.”

“Yes, Master,” Tibby complied, and popped away.

Malfoy closed his eyes and wished he had the luxury of getting stinking drunk.

When he joined the Death Eaters prior to the first war, the Dark Lord was a riveting, charismatic presence who promised to cleanse the wizarding world of weakness and bring proper purebloods to power.  For several years it had looked as if their cause would be victorious.  Then the Dark Lord had heard rumors of some thrice-damned prophecy, and things were never the same.

Now the Dark Lord’s appearance was truly appalling and he no longer cared about pureblood politics.  There were no more strategy sessions about how to promote pureblood supremacy, and even he wouldn’t speak in his master’s presence without first receiving permission.  The Dark Lord had taken to torturing his own servants with regularity, and Lucius had no doubt that most Death Eaters would desert him if it were an option.

But the Dark Lord could track them through the Dark Mark, and their only options were service or suicide.  Recruiting new and enthusiastic young Death Eaters would be virtually impossible, and a prolonged war against Dumbledore and the Ministry would be a disaster.  His master may be immortal, but the Death Eaters were all too human.

In his heart of hearts, Lucius would have preferred that the Dark Lord stay dead.  He had acquired quite a lot of money and influence in his absence.  Lucius was a strategist and a politician, and despite his occasional dabbling in sadism, thought it beneath his station to engage in the wholesale rapine and slaughter that some of his colleagues enjoyed.

His strengths were his political acumen and cunning, and now it fell to him to ensure that they were not all destroyed by the madness of their master.

“Here you are, Master,” said Tibby as she popped back in the room.

Malfoy took the glass and had to restrain himself from draining it in one gulp.  The stress of his current position was beginning to wear on him.

He had employed every means of flattery and logic to convince the Dark Lord to conceal his return for a time.  The Dark Lord had been absent from the scene for too many years, and it was Lucius who now possessed the essential knowledge of the Ministry’s workings.

He had blackmailed several important Wizengamot members and Ministry officials, and Fudge was now firmly in his pocket.  He was certain that Fudge would cooperate when the time was right; the man had too much desire to remain in power.  With luck, they could soon move into the open without having to face a Ministry that would galvanize the wizarding world against their cause.

He had secured enough intelligence to ensure the success of their imminent assassinations, and now he was trying to figure out the most efficient means of rescuing the incarcerated Death Eaters from Azkaban.

They could subdue the Auror guards easily enough, but the question was the Dementors.  There was no way to contact them without being in their presence, and their reaction to his Lord’s offer could not be predicted with any accuracy.  Even if they accepted, the logistics of transporting and housing the detestable creatures was a headache of epic proportions.  He secretly hoped that they would have no desire to leave their island home, as they would cause chaos for all sides in a wizarding war.

That war was approaching rapidly, and hopefully the back of the resistance would be broken before it could truly organize.

Bones would soon be dead, and it was important to neutralize Dumbledore and Potter as much as possible.  But they had no way to strike directly at Dumbledore, as the Dark Lord wanted Snape to remain at Hogwarts as a spy.  Potter’s whereabouts were currently unknown.

Snape’s news that Potter had run from Hogwarts was both good and bad for their cause.  On the one hand, it was now impossible to launch a strike against the boy at Hogwarts.  On the other, he was no longer under Dumbledore’s protection.  Lucius didn’t know why Potter had run from Hogwarts, and he didn’t care.  He left that obsession for his master.

Sighing and sipping his cognac again, Lucius could only hope that his plans were successful.  Once the Ministry was under their control, it wouldn’t matter as much that his master wanted to murder everyone in sight.  He would have free reign to kill and maim while the Ministry sued for peace and adopted pureblood policies; Lucius hoped dearly it was enough to satisfy him.

Soon, he thought with some relief, soon we will be ready.

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Bones Manor, Guest Rooms

Harry Potter looked at the letter in his hands for approximately the fortieth time that day, a dozen different emotions warring for dominance.  He was sitting on the floor of his bedroom in Bones Manor, surrounded on all sides by the contents of the trunks he had retrieved from the Potter vault.

He had hoped to find letters from his parents, perhaps some of their personal effects, but most of the trunks contained things that were meaningless to him.  There were photographs of people he didn’t recognize, clothes from generations ago, trinkets of no estimable value, and even someone’s wedding dress.

But there was no family grimoire, no diaries from his parents—nothing that would connect him personally to his history.  There were a few items that intrigued him—like a pair of mirrors that apparently gave off no reflection—but on the whole he was very disappointed in the find.

The most interesting thing they had retrieved from Gringotts was a letter and photograph from Sirius Black.  He had read the letter over and over, and its contents were still mystifying to him.  It read:

Dear Harry,

If you’re reading this letter, then it looks like I didn’t survive the war.  I hope we got a chance to get to know each other, or that you’ll at least remember “Paff”—your big, black doggy friend.  Did you know that was your first word?  I’ve never been prouder in my life, and I’ve kept a copy of that photo for myself.  Maybe your animagus form will be a dog too.  Your dad may also claim he gave you your first broom ride, but don’t believe him.  It was your illustrious godfather—I snuck you out for a ride once when I was babysitting you.  Now that I’m gone I suppose it’s okay for you to tell your mum; she can’t hex me in the afterlife.

There’s not much I can give you save for this vault and the knowledge that I cared deeply for you.  You were the first child of the Marauders, and we all doted on you as if you were our own.  If you haven’t heard them all already, ask your dad to tell you stories about the infamous Marauders and the genius of their pranks at Hogwarts.

Live well Harry, and pull a prank or two in memory of your godfather.

With you in spirit,

Sirius Black

January 29, 1981

Accompanying the letter was a small photo that featured a big black dog with a baby riding on its back.  The dog was walking slowly in circles, as if chasing its tail, and the baby in the picture was giggling madly as it gripped the fur of the dog’s neck.

That’s me, Harry thought in disbelief.  Something about it moved him more than any other photograph he possessed.

The letter also cleared up for Harry, at least partially, the mystery of the Marauder’s Map.  His father had been one of them; had been one of the map’s creators.  And “Paff” could only be Padfoot, apparently the nickname of Sirius Black.

So who was my dad? Harry wondered.  Moony, Wormtail, or Prongs?  ‘Prongs’ could be a stag’s name, and that’s my patronus form.  Maybe it was my dad’s animagus form.  And Professor Lupin is a werewolf, and was friends with my dad.  Could he be Moony?  Why wouldn’t he have told me about this when he taught me?

The letter’s fond references to his then-living parents made Harry’s heart tight with nostalgia, and, despite the author of the letter, he treasured it deeply.  What he couldn’t understand was how someone who seemed so fond of him had conspired to kill him and his family.  Was the letter a hoax of some kind?  It just didn’t make sense.  He vowed to ask Madam Bones about the matter when he saw her next.

His musing was interrupted by a sharp knock on the door, which was thrust open as Tonks entered without an invitation.  She had been at Bones Manor for the past few hours as a bodyguard of sorts.

“Hullo, Harry Potter,” she smiled.  “Find anything interesting in all that stuff?”

“Hey Tonks,” he responded.  “And no, not much.  I thought there would be so much more.  I don’t even know what some of it is,” he said, gesturing at the small mirrors that failed to show his reflection.

“Ooohhh,” said Tonks, “I’ve seen those before.  Pretty expensive, those are.  They’re not real mirrors—they’re used for communication.  You can only see another person in them, when they’re using the other mirror.”

“Oh,” said Harry, “that could be useful then.”

Tonks nodded.  “Right useful indeed.  Director Bones just flooed, and she and Unspeakable Croaker are coming over in a few minutes to talk to you.  They had their meeting with Dumbledore.”

“How did it go?” Harry asked nervously.  He was aware of Bones’ plan to confront Dumbledore, and had no idea what to expect from it.

“No idea,” Tonks shrugged.  “But she’s still alive, so that’s a good sign, yeah?” she smirked at him.

Harry rolled his eyes.  “Tonks, you are the most—,”

But he never got a chance to inform Tonks what he thought of her, as the glasses that Padma had transfigured for him chose that moment to revert back to their natural state.

A small hand mirror suddenly fell from Harry’s nose, scraping it on its way to the floor, where it shattered into a dozen pieces.  Harry stared at it stupidly for a few seconds, and Tonks burst out laughing.

Harry’s face reddened in embarrassment.  He looked up and glared at her now hazy features.  “Oh, laugh it up, Nymphadora.  Now I can’t see a bloody thing.”

That stopped Tonks’ giggling.  “Oi, you may be The-Boy-Who-Lived, but you’ll be The-Eunuch-Who-Lived if you use my name again.”

Harry smirked at her.  “Why?  Is it embarrassing for some reason?  I mean, what does your name mean, anyway?”

Tonks’ hair shuffled rapidly through several colors, finally settling on a garish purple.  She pulled her wand and sent a stinging hex at Harry’s crotch that forced him to roll to the side.

“Hey!” he yelled, “I don’t have a bloody wand!”  He was now standing and prepared to dodge again, his eyes squinting in Tonks’ direction.

“That’s the idea, Harry,” Tonks smiled wickedly.  “What were you saying about my name, again?”

But Amelia Bones and Algernon Croaker entered the room before Harry, perhaps luckily for him, could make another smart remark.

“Ahem,” Madam Bones cleared her throat, and Tonks lowered her wand.

“Er, sorry Director,” Tonks said, “just teaching young Harry here a little lesson in manners.”

“Right,” said Bones, all business.  “Auror Tonks, if you will excuse us, we need to speak to Mr. Potter privately.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Tonks said, and left the room.

“Harry,” Madam Bones began, “this is Algernon Croaker, the Head of the Department of Mysteries.  He accompanied me to the meeting with Headmaster Dumbledore, and there are some things we need to discuss.  Please have a seat.”

“Hello, sir,” he said to Croaker, then seated himself in a desk chair in the corner of the room.

“Er, Madam Bones, before you begin, I can’t really see well right now.  My glasses were transfigured, and it wore off a few minutes ago.  Do you think you could…”

“Say no more, Mr. Potter,” Bones interrupted, and picked up a shard of mirror from the floor.  She flicked her wand several times over it, and then handed Harry a passable imitation of his round lenses.  “See if those are satisfactory.”

Harry tried them on, and was instantly pleased to find that he could see clearer than ever.  “Wow,” he breathed.  “Thank you; these are great.”

“You’re welcome, Mr. Potter,” said Bones, still standing.  “Now, first things first.  Here is your wand back.  I had it thoroughly checked, and there is now nothing on it except the Ministry trace.  I’m afraid I must insist that it remain for the time being.  If you were to disappear for some reason, we need to be able to find you, and the trace is a reliable method.”

She neglected to tell him that he was now a virtual prisoner in Bones Manor, and the likelihood of such a disappearance was virtually zero.  She was taking no chances with such a valuable guest.

Harry nodded in understanding, slightly disappointed, as he accepted his wand.

“If you have your elf bring the rest of your belongings to me, I will remove whatever foreign charms that have been placed on them,” she continued.  “If your elf can locate your owl and have her fly to the Ministry, I will also make certain she is free of tracking charms…”

Harry nodded, but interrupted her spiel, impatient to find out what had happened earlier.  “I understand, ma’am.  Can you tell me what happened with Dumbledore?”

Bones sighed and conjured chairs for her and Croaker, who had been observing Harry silently up till now.

“Mr. Potter, we debated long and hard about what to tell you, and in the end decided that you have a right to know everything, if only to prevent you from doing something reckless,” she began.

“Here are the facts as they relate to you.  When you were a baby, the Dark Lord attempted to use your death in a dark ritual that—he believed—would help make him immortal.  That ritual backfired somehow, and resulted in his own apparent death.  We don’t know why at this point.  Professor Dumbledore believes that your, er, connection, to this ritual requires your death for Voldemort to be killed again.”

Harry paled rapidly as he heard this explanation.  Were they going to turn him over to Dumbledore?

“Relax, lad,” Croaker spoke, for the first time.  “I believe Dumbledore was mistaken in that regard, but I’d like to check something if I may.  Do you mind if I cast a detection spell on you?  It might sting a little.”

Harry acquiesced reluctantly, and Croaker waved his wand around Harry in a circular pattern and muttered in Latin.  He finished by jabbing his wand at Harry’s scar, causing Harry to jump a little in alarm.  A peculiarly cool sensation seemed to emanate from the top of his head, but it wasn’t really painful.

Croaker stepped back and Harry looked at him with sudden dread.

“You’re just fine, Mr. Potter,” he said.  “As I suspected, nothing remains of what was done to you.”

Harry closed his eyes in relief, and then looked at Bones hopefully.  “Does that mean that Dumbledore will stop trying to sacrifice me?”

She looked at him sadly.  “I’m afraid not, Mr. Potter.  Dumbledore claims that there is a prophecy about you and Voldemort, one that requires you to die at his hands.  This is highly doubtful, but he refuses to reveal the contents of the prophecy, or who made it.  We shall have to remain vigilant until we can discover what it says.”

Harry clenched his jaw in frustration.  “A bloody prophecy?  But I thought divination was just a load of rubbish.  Trelawney’s always predicting my death in stupid ways.”

Croaker answered.  “Divination mostly is rubbish, Mr. Potter.  But there are such things as genuine prophecies.  There is a section in my department devoted to studying them and sorting out the rubbish.  People are required by law to report them when they hear one, but most of what gets reported is utter nonsense.  Some batty old women report a new one every week.”

“So you can’t force Dumbledore to tell you, then?”  Harry asked.

“I’m afraid not.  Ordinarily we could prosecute him, but not with Voldemort on the loose.  Dumbledore is too important to the fight against him, and he knows it.  We’ll do our best to figure something out, lad,” said Croaker.

Croaker didn’t tell him that if Dumbledore turned out to be right, he would hand him over to Voldemort himself.

Harry smiled wanly at him.  “I appreciate your help, believe me.  It’s just so…frustrating.  What about my magic?  Were you able to find out what’s wrong with it?”

Bones took this one.  “Harry,” she said gently, “it appears the Headmaster performed a very dangerous and very illegal ritual on you to block access to your magic.  It used to be called a ‘prisoner’s block,’ because it was placed on the most heinous criminals before they were sent to Azkaban.  It was outlawed 200 years ago because it would invariably result in insanity and death within a week.”

Harry’s eyes widened in alarm.

“Because of the dementors, Mr. Potter,” Bones finished quickly.  “Without access to their magic, the prisoners were totally defenseless against their power, almost like muggles.”

“But,” Harry said, his heart racing, “I still have some magic, it just feels…dampened somehow.  And I don’t remember any ritual.”

“Harry,” she said softly, “he could have simply stunned you in your sleep.  We think Dumbledore altered the ritual to allow you access to a small amount of your magic.  The trouble is that the ritual is meant to be permanent.  The effects of removing the block are known to be…unpredictable.  We can do it, but you should know that…that there’s a chance your magic will be permanently damaged.  I’m sorry, Mr. Potter.”

Harry digested that in silence, his face growing red and the desire to murder Albus Dumbledore growing in his heart.

“I want him dead,” Harry whispered, looking up at them.  “How can he just get away with that?”

Bones frowned at his admission, but was sympathetic.  “Ordinarily he wouldn’t, Mr. Potter.  Performing that ritual on someone is enough to earn him life in Azkaban; but we can’t do anything about it right now.”

Harry nodded, but more to himself.  Bones wondered just what resolutions he was making.

“I’ll make some preparations tomorrow, Mr. Potter,” said Croaker, “and we’ll do our best to ensure that you recover fully.  But it’s best for the block to be removed as soon as possible.”

Harry nodded morosely.  “Is that all, then?” he asked, suddenly wanting nothing more than to be alone.

“For now, lad, yes,” said Croaker.  “Try to keep your chin up.  There’s still a lot we don’t know, and right now we’ve got a lot to do to prepare for a possible war.  You’re not the only one that Dumbledore’s playing games with.”

“Thank you,” Harry said, and the duo nodded and the left the room.

In his anticipation of their explanations, he had forgotten to ask Madam Bones about Sirius Black or about protecting his family money from Dumbledore.

Harry moved to the bed and threw himself down on it.  He was torn between outrage, fear, and despair.  Dumbledore had done something to him that may have crippled his magic, and there was some mysterious prophecy out there about him and Voldemort.  It was enough to send anyone into hysterics, and Harry closed his eyes and tried to calm himself.

He thought longingly of his life at Hogwarts before he had learned these terrible secrets.  He would give up everything right now to be someone else, some anonymous student with an ordinary life.  But fate had singled him out to suffer and, it seemed, to fight.

So be it, Harry thought, his outrage overriding his fear.  So be it.

His sense of being in constant mortal danger was starting to inure him to thought of his own death.  When I get my magic fixed, Dumbledore is going to regret it, he reflected bitterly.  He was unsure now whether he had more hatred for Dumbledore or for Voldemort.

“Master Harry Potter Sir, Dobby is back,” said the elf as he popped into the room, startling Harry out of his fatalistic thoughts.

“Thank you, Dobby.  Did you have any problems?” Harry asked dully.

“No problems, Master Harry, but Dobby is having a letter to deliver.  Miss Parvy is asking Dobby to wait for her to write a letter,” he said, handing an envelope to Harry.

Harry took the letter from Dobby and opened it quickly.  He scanned it several times, wondering if there was any news from Hogwarts.

After Dobby had delivered 10,000 galleons to Dinesh—a sum that was painful for Harry to part with—he had asked him to pop to Hogwarts and inform Parvati and Padma of his safety.  The Patil family, however unwilling some of them were, had really come through for him.

Parvati’s letter contained nothing of urgency.  She inquired about his health, wished him the best of luck, and informed him that nothing seemed amiss at Hogwarts.  Most of the students seemed to accept the excuse that Harry was quarantined with some contagious disease, and neither she nor Padma had been questioned by anyone.  Ron had returned to Gryffindor Tower, looking a little shell-shocked but otherwise normal, but Hermione had yet to return even to classes.  Parvati thought she was still in the Hospital Wing, four days after Harry’s confrontation with her.

I wonder what’s the matter with her, Harry pondered.  I didn’t hurt her at all.

A sense of surreality returned to Harry as he stared at Parvati’s letter.  In Hogwarts other students were going about their lives as if nothing was out of the ordinary.  Ron was going to classes and playing quidditch.  Did he feel no guilt for his role in trying to get him killed?  Hermione seemed to be overwhelmed with guilt, but she deserved it, Harry thought.

Harry thought of Ginny, and again it gave him a small sense of comfort.  He wondered if his thoughts were his own, or if the love potion was still affecting his thinking.  Whatever the case, he found himself unable to think ill of her.  He had no desire to contact her, but he didn’t resent her like he did Ron and Hermione.

Harry put down the letter and stared in the direction of his family heirlooms.  His eyes fell on the mirrors that Tonks said were used for communication.  He considered for a moment, then made up his mind.  It would be very useful to have a contact in Hogwarts, and Parvati seemed willing to help him.

“Dobby,” he said, “I need to check something, then I’ve got another delivery for you to make at Hogwarts.”

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A/N: There you go.  Dumbledore gets a bit of a smackdown, but Harry is still very much in danger.  There will be more on horcrux theory and how Voldemort survived later in the story.

The romance between Harry and Parvati will start in earnest next chapter, but it will develop slowly and realistically.  I want to portray a plausible relationship between two teenagers growing up in a time of war.

Thanks for reading!