The Potter Conspiracy

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

Chapter Sixteen – The Day After

October 14, 1995 – Hogwarts, Headmaster’s Office

“Does anyone have anything else to add?”

“Very well.  We each have our duties, so let’s be about them.  Remember to test the strength of your household wards.  Once again, Bill, we are so very sorry for your family’s loss.  Arthur was a great man, and losing him brings home just how important our efforts are.  Remus, Severus—I’d like you both to stay please.”

Fourteen wizards and witches rose to depart at the Headmaster’s dismissal.  Everyone stopped to talk to Bill Weasley on the way out, each briefly expressing his condolences to the eldest son—and now eldest male—of the Weasley family.  Arthur Weasley had been one of the many casualties in the previous day’s slaughter, and the members of the Order were stunned by his death.  A gentle and unassuming man, it seemed absurd that he should die in a magical fight.

Molly Weasley had been inconsolable when she was informed of Arthur’s death.  Her wails could be heard in the village of Ottery St. Catchpole, several miles from the Burrow.  She had wept for hours, and was now practically comatose in her bed, having been given a strong sedative by Madam Pomfrey.  Bill was equally stunned, but he was doing his best to keep it together for the sake of his family.  He would be taking Ron, Ginny, and the twins with him when he returned to the Burrow.

Snape and Lupin joined Dumbledore behind his desk as the expanded room slowly emptied of people.

“Remus,” Dumbledore said lowly, “You have expressed yourself clearly on this matter in the past, but I must ask you to reconsider.  There will be a full moon in less than two weeks.  Greyback and his pack will almost certainly wreak havoc somewhere, and they must be stopped.  We need intelligence.”

Lupin sighed deeply.  “Headmaster, it’s not that I don’t want to spy on Greyback, as much as I despise the man.  I am a known quantity; if I approach them I will be dead before the first word leaves my mouth.”

“But surely you have some contacts among your, er, fellows that could help gather information,” Dumbledore persisted.

Lupin frowned.  All of his friends were long dead, and he was the last man who could be said to have a ‘pack’ mentality.  “I’ll try, Headmaster, but I can’t make any promises.  Greyback and his pack are a very suspicious lot.”

“Do your best, Remus.  I know I’m asking a lot, but our situation is grave.  Hagrid has sent word that his talks with the giants have failed, and he is returning to Hogwarts.  If Voldemort has both giants and werewolves on his side, it could be disastrous.”

Lupin nodded reluctantly and followed the last of the Order out the door, looking every bit like a dog who had just been kicked.  Dumbledore sighed after Lupin exited.

“I told you he was too cowardly,” Snape sneered.

Dumbledore shook his head.  “He is no coward, Severus, but he is certainly no man of action.  One would think that with his condition—but never mind, we have other things to discuss.”

“You have decided to go forward, then?”  Snape asked, unable to hide his anticipation.

“Yes,” said Dumbledore, frowning.  “We have no choice.  Things are falling apart quickly at the Ministry, and Amelia isn’t there to take control.  Robards just isn’t prepared for a situation like this.”

Now Snape frowned.  “Are you certain that Miss Bones will have access to Potter?  We could be waiting for hours on the foolish boy to show up.”

“No, Severus; I will make certain that Susan has access to Harry.  Amelia will likely be moved to her home tomorrow or the day after, so be ready.  I shall inform Alastor that we are moving forward.”

“I will, Headmaster,” Snape replied.  “And you’re doing the right thing.  It would be suicide to risk our old plan now.  With Bellatrix and the rest of that rabble back, there are just too many Death Eaters there.”

“Let us hope so, Severus,” Dumbledore said tiredly.  “Do what you can to delay their recovery, but don’t endanger yourself.”

Snape inclined his head in agreement and took that as his dismissal.  He strode quickly from the office, leaving Dumbledore to drop into his chair and hold his head in his hands.

Yesterday had been a disaster of epic proportions.  Voldemort had taken out most of the power players in the Wizengamot, and now there was no one there with the backbone to oppose Lucius Malfoy.  The Head Auror had been murdered in his own office, and the Director of the DMLE had nearly been killed as well.  Add to that the death of Arthur Weasley and the wanton destruction in Diagon Alley, and the picture looked very grim.

Dumbledore was mildly surprised that there had been no attempt on his life, but that concerned him less than the lack of an attack on Minister Fudge.  If Lucius Malfoy were pulling Fudge’s strings, Voldemort would find very little political opposition to his plans.  The Ministry appeared more vulnerable right now than at any other time in Dumbledore’s memory.

That made it imperative for him to make up for the mistakes he had made concerning Harry Potter.

He turned to Fawkes and looked sadly at the scarlet and gold bird.

“Fawkes, do you see the consequences of your interference now?” he said softly, but accusingly.  “Will you not help me prevent further bloodshed?”

Fawkes eyed his wizard intently, then raised himself proudly on his perch.  He sang a mournful song of only a few notes, then returned to his resting position, ignoring Dumbledore’s desperate gaze.

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Bones Manor, Front Lawn

A sweating Harry Potter stood in the middle of the lush grass of Bones Manor, his face red and his chest heaving.  He had just finished a half-hour run around the inside of the wards, and he had run as hard as he could.  Last night’s news about the attacks on the wizarding world, especially the attack on Madam Bones, had left him feeling enraged and helpless.  He wasn’t supposed to be outside running, but he told his house elf minder that he was doing it anyway.  He needed to release some pent-up frustration, and it had been too long since his last run.

Harry paced back and forth in the space that he and Tonks used for dueling practice.  She was on emergency duty and unable to train him today, but it was just as well.  He was in no mood to train today; he was in the mood to blast something to pieces.

Harry eyed the large block of wood that they had used for practice yesterday, now misshapen and pock-marked, and decided it would have to do.

He dropped into a crouch and leveled his wand at the wood, pretending that it was the source of his problems.  He shot off a rapid succession of piercing curses, then dodged a pretend curse and blasted the wood with a pair of severing curses.  He didn’t realize that he was performing the curses non-verbally until later.

The sad piece of wood was whittled down to half its original size over the next half hour as Harry took pot shots at it.  Finally growing bored with his piecemeal dissection, Harry decided to deliver the coup de grace.

“Confringo!” he screamed at the top of his lungs, and the block, already resembling a deformed and blackened hunk of swiss cheese, exploded in a shower of splinters.

Emotionally exhausted, Harry sat down in a heap on the ground and stared at the destruction he had wrought on the wood.

So many people had died yesterday, and the one person he could count on to protect him had almost been among them.  Amelia Bones was currently in a potion-induced coma at an Auror medical facility, having lost a dangerous amount of blood as well as her left arm.  Tonks had informed him late last night that she would likely recover in time, but it had been a very close call.

The death of Arthur Weasley shocked him even more.  Harry knew that people were likely to die in the coming conflict with Voldemort; he had already witnessed one of his classmates die before his eyes.  But somehow the death of Mr. Weasley was different.  Mr. Weasley was the only father figure he had ever known, and, much like the twins, he doubted that Mr. Weasley was aware of the plot against him.  There was simply nothing dishonorable about the man.  Despite his feelings toward Ron and his mother, Harry wished there was something he could do to console the rest of the family.

Reading that morning’s Daily Prophet had only increased his sense of frustration.  For once the rag had not been focused on destroying Harry’s reputation, and he was genuinely shocked at the amount of truth within its pages.  The paper carried pictures of the escaped Death Eaters and confirmed that You-Know-Who appeared to be back.  It even described the crime scenes of the various deaths, a number that totaled over 40.  The wizarding world was reeling in shock, and Harry wondered whether Fudge had lost control of the paper.  

Harry hoped that Tonks would return to the Manor soon.  What he wanted most right now was more information.  He wanted to know what was happening, and how he was going to be a part of it.  He already knew that he would have to fight, whether he wanted to or not.  Both Dumbledore and Voldemort had painted a big target on his back, and he only hoped he had enough time to learn how to defend himself properly.

With renewed determination, Harry picked himself off the ground and marched toward the tree line of the Bones property.  Some old, dead trees there would make excellent target practice.

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Hogwarts, Empty Classroom on Fourth Floor

“Obliviate!”

Draco Malfoy peered closely at the stunned girl, a third-year from Hufflepuff, as if trying to discern whether his spell had been successful.  Satisfied that it was, he straightened the girl’s robes and cast a cleaning charm on his fingers.  Giving the room one last look, he unlocked the door and looked out into the corridor.  He exited cautiously and then began walking casually toward the Great Hall.

His father had showed him how to use the ‘obliviate’ spell over the summer, and lately he had decided that it was a waste not to take advantage of it.  The last two weeks had been kind to him.  Potter had fled like a coward, the Dark Lord had returned to power, and his clothes had finally stopped making him itch.  He regretted not having carried out some revenge against Potter before he left, but he was more than a little afraid of Harry Potter these days.

The attacks of the previous day had given Draco an intoxicating sense of empowerment.  He felt like he was in on a joke that no one else was, and would soon assume his rightful place as the Prince of Hogwarts, a pureblood aristocrat entitled to do whatever he wanted.  So what if what he wanted was in the possession of unwilling young girls?  That’s what memory charms were for.

And so Draco strode proudly toward the Great Hall, looking down haughtily on everyone he passed.  He no longer felt the need for bodyguards, especially when he was engaged in one of his “trysts,” as he thought of them.

As he passed by the main doors in the Entrance Hall, he saw a distraught-looking Neville Longbottom being led toward them by Professor McGonagall.  Draco knew what had just happened to Neville’s grandmother, and couldn’t resist giving the timid boy a smirk as he passed by.

It was a poorly timed gesture.

Neville had learned of his grandmother’s death the previous evening, and had spent the night in the hospital wing seething with grief, rage, and fear.  The escape of the Lestranges had left him feeling helpless and cornered.

He saw Malfoy smirk at him and snapped.

Before McGonagall could register what was happening, Neville turned from the doors and was on top of Malfoy, a flurry of fists taking the blond boy to the ground.  He had not bothered to draw a wand, his rage demanding physical blows.

Malfoy was so shocked by the sudden violence that he merely raised his hands in protest, which did nothing to prevent Neville from pummeling his face to a bloody pulp.  Neville screamed incoherent words at Malfoy as he pounded him, unaware that he was crying uncontrollably or making so much noise.

“Mr. Longbottom!” McGonagall finally yelled, stunned at the viciousness displayed by the normally meek boy.  She attempted to grab Neville’s back, only to be elbowed in the face by an oblivious Neville.  Resorting to her wand, she levitated a still-swinging Neville off Malfoy, and finally stunned him to prevent him from continuing.  She had no doubt that Neville would kill Draco if she left him to it.

She turned to Malfoy, and was astonished at how much damage had been done in just a few seconds.  Malfoy was moaning piteously and his face was covered in blood.  His nose was clearly broken and both eyes had already begun to swell.  The blood streaming from his mouth suggested that he likely had several broken teeth, and his breathing was hoarse.

Students were now gathering around the scene, whispering excitedly and gawking at the sight of Malfoy’s broken face.

“Get back!” McGonagall yelled in fury, and the students did just that.

“Professor Flitwick!” she yelled toward the open doors of the nearby Great Hall, “I need your assistance immediately!”

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Bones Manor, Guest Rooms

Later that evening Harry sat on the bed in what he now thought of as ‘his’ room, rereading the book Tonks had given him.  He hadn’t yet practiced most of its contents, but he wanted to be ready when the time came.

Despite the risk of splinching, he had spent the entire afternoon apparating around the grounds and immediately falling into attack stances.  When he grew bored with that, he had returned to pummeling the few dead trees on the edge of the Bones property, all the while dodging spells from imaginary foes.

Now he felt somewhat relaxed, and was looking forward to talking to Parvati later.  They had talked yesterday evening, but at the time it hadn’t been clear just what was going on.

Harry looked up from his book when there was a soft knock on the door.  He drew his wand just in case.

“Come in,” he said, and relaxed when Croaker entered the room.  He was wearing disheveled blue robes, and looked as if he hadn’t slept at all the night before.

“Mr. Potter,” he said, eyeing the contents of the room before seating himself at the desk chair, “we need to speak.  I haven’t much time, but it’s important.”

“Okay, sir,” said Harry, sitting now on the edge of his bed.  “What’s going on?  Can you tell me anything more about Madam Bones?”

Croaker ran his hand through his hair and sighed.  “She’s still not conscious, lad, but the healers think it will be safe to wake her soon.  She lost a lot of blood, and it will take her some time to regain her strength.”

“But she’s going to be okay?” Harry asked worriedly.  He really felt that he needed Bones on his side.

“Aye, she will, but there’s no replacing her arm.  Magic can’t regrow everything, I’m afraid.  She’ll have to use some sort of prosthesis.”

Harry nodded, relieved that Bones would live, even if her arm was a lost cause.

“Now, Mr. Potter,” said Croaker, suddenly very serious, “I have a question for you.  And I want an honest answer.”

“Er, okay,” said Harry, disconcerted at Croaker’s tone.

Croaker eyed him hard for a few seconds, while Harry did his best to maintain eye contact.

“If you had a choice between fighting against Voldemort, or sitting out the war, which would you choose?”

The simplicity of the question surprised Harry, and he answered instantly.  “I don’t see that I’ve got that choice, sir.  I’ve got to fight; I just need to know how.”

“Good, good,” replied Croaker, “because you’re right—you don’t have a choice.  You may be the key to the whole thing, and you’ll have to fight whether you want to or not.”

“How am I the key?” asked Harry, his heart suddenly in his throat.

Croaker sat back in his chair and sighed again, this time rubbing his eyes.  Harry thought he looked much older than he usually did.

“I know the prophecy, Mr. Potter.  Dumbledore finally gave it up, and it is my opinion that you need to know it.  Are you ready for it?”

Harry nodded hesitantly and clenched his jaw.

“The one with the power to vanquish the Dark Lord approaches…Born to those who have thrice defied him, born as the seventh month dies…And the Dark Lord will mark him as his equal, but he will have power the Dark Lord knows not…And either must die at the hand of the other for neither can live while the other survives…The one with the power to vanquish the Dark Lord will be born as the seventh month dies.”

Croaker had spoken the words slowly and deliberately so that Harry could follow them.

“Shite,” whispered Harry, exhaling the breath he had been holding.

“Quite,” Croaker responded, observing Harry closely.

Harry stared into the corner of his room for quite a while, slowly digesting this new information.

“Well, that explains a lot, I suppose.  I knew it had to be something like that.”

Croaker raised a curious eyebrow at him.  “You’re taking it a lot better than I expected, lad.”

Harry just shook his head.  “You didn’t really tell me anything new.  I already knew those two bastards were trying to kill me; now I know why.”

Croaker nodded, impressed.  “This prophecy is why Dumbledore believes that you must die at the Dark Lord’s hands.  He doesn’t believe you could possibly defeat him, you see.  And while you’re still kicking, no one else can take the bastard down.”

Harry snorted, again taking a few seconds to think through what Croaker had said.

“So he thinks I don’t have a chance, and I’m preventing him from killing Voldemort….but,” Harry said, frowning, “but what if no one else can do it but me?  And what’s this special power I’m supposed to have?”

“There’s the rub, Mr. Potter.  The prophecy is extremely vague, and I have no idea if you are the only one who can kill Voldemort.  From what I know of prophecies, which is considerable, mind you, it is doubtful that your death would doom the entire world.  Dumbledore is probably right about that.”

Harry narrowed his eyes at Croaker, and he held up his hands in a gesture of surrender.

“But,” continued Croaker, with emphasis, “it’s not a risk I want to take, especially when you have been, er, marked by fate to fight Voldemort.  Dumbledore has been going about things backwards.”

“And ‘the power he knows not?’”  Harry asked tersely.

Croaker shrugged.  “Again, I have no idea.  You may be the master of some kind of magic no one’s ever seen, or it could simply be that you can run faster.  Who knows?  I’ll have one of my people do a battery of tests on you soon, but the ‘power’ could be something entirely metaphorical.”

“Could it be the power I have behind my spells now?” Harry asked.  “I mean, my offensive spells have become really strong since you took that block off.”

Croaker rubbed his goatee thoughtfully.  “It could be, Mr. Potter, it could be.  But we know that the Dark Lord ‘marked you as an equal,’” he said, pointing at Harry’s scar.

“I’m inclined to believe that’s where your power comes from.  You see, when you struck down the Dark Lord as an infant, he likely survived by leeching off your power as you grew up.  Your magic was forced to replenish itself at an unnaturally fast rate, so he was unknowingly making you more powerful.  It appears that you got back all of that ‘stolen’ magic when you fought him in the graveyard.  But of course I can only speculate here; this situation is unique in the history of magic.”

Harry sighed in frustration at Croaker’s lack of certainty.  “And the block?  Did that hurt the power you think I’ve got?”

“It appears not, lad,” said Croaker, shaking his head.  “The same principle applies.  Oddly enough, your ability to slowly fight through the block added strength to your magic—once it was removed, it probably made you even more powerful.  Well, except for transfiguration, apparently.  Are you getting any better at that?”

Harry grimaced.  “A little, but it still takes me a long time to get it right.  I don’t think I’ll ever be able to use it in a fight.  I keep reading about how the best duelers use it almost exclusively, and it worries me.”

Croaker did his best to reassure him.  “Don’t worry, Mr. Potter.  There’s more than one way to win a fight.  If you can overpower somebody with your spells, they won’t have time to transfigure everything into weapons.  We’ll teach you how to use your abilities to your advantage.”

Harry nodded glumly, still trying to wrap his mind around the vague words of the prophecy.  He rubbed his eyes in irritation, cursing under his breath about divination.

“It also said ‘neither can live while the other survives.’  We’re both alive right now.  Does that mean both of us have to die?”

This was the question that Croaker had hoped Harry wouldn’t ask.  He simply didn’t know the answer.  But he felt it important to keep the boy’s morale high.

“I think it…unlikely,” Croaker replied after a pause.  “I don’t think that the prophecy requires your death—only that you won’t be able to truly live until he’s gone.”

What Croaker didn’t say was that the prophecy had been complicated by the horcrux ritual that Voldemort performed on Harry as an infant.  He couldn’t say with certainty that the link between the two of them had been severed permanently.

Harry noticed his pause, but chose not to comment on it.

“So what do we do now?”

“Well, we get you trained up and ready to fight as soon as humanly possible; that’s what we do.”

Harry nodded.  “Good.  So will other people be training me now, too?”

“We’ll see what we can do.  Not many people can be spared at once, but your training is now a high priority.  We’ll find a way to make it happen, and in the mean time Auror Tonks can teach you everything she knows.”

“What else do we do about the prophecy?” Harry asked.

“Well, we keep it a secret,” replied Croaker, “and then mostly we just ignore it.  The damned things are only clear in retrospect, and trying to manipulate things to make one come true is always disastrous.”

“So you think Dumbledore is wrong, then?”

“I’m almost certain, lad.”

“I don’t like the word ‘almost,’” whispered Harry, staring at the floor in thought.  Croaker waited patiently on him to finish musing.

“‘Born as the seventh month dies,’” said Harry, turning over the phrase in his mind.  “That means he heard this before I was born.  My entire life he’s been grooming me as a sacrifice, waiting for the right time to hand me over to Voldemort…he did something to get my parents killed, I just know it.  I’m going to fucking kill that old man,” he finished bitterly.

Croaker eyed Harry seriously again, wondering just how candid he could be with him.  So far the boy had impressed him, but it was probably best to conceal the most awful truth from him: Dumbledore’s decision to keep the prophecy to himself was the only reason Harry was alive today.

“Easy, lad.  What Dumbledore did to you is unforgivable, but he’s not your biggest problem right now.  We’ve got a Dark Lord running loose, murdering people right and left, and Dumbledore is standing in his way.”

“People keep telling me that,” said Harry coldly, “but from where I’m standing he’s more dangerous than Voldemort.  Keep him away from me, sir, or I will try to kill him.”

Croaker nodded slowly.  “Point taken, Mr. Potter.  You worry about learning how to fight, and let me worry about Dumbledore for now.”

When Harry gave no response, Croaker groaned and rose from his seat.  “Alright, lad, I’ve got to get back to the Ministry.  All hell is breaking loose there, and Fudge is afraid to open his office door, the bloody wanker.”

“Is he in on it?” Harry asked, rising with Croaker.  “I mean, is he working for Voldemort?”

“Hard to tell, lad,” said Croaker, “but I doubt it.  Not yet, at least.  He seems to be genuinely terrified.”

Harry nodded.  “Thank you, sir.  I appreciate you being straight with me.  I’ll do my best to be ready when the time comes.”

Croaker gave him a wry smile and turned to leave.

“Oh,” he said, “I almost forgot.”

He reached into his robes and pulled out a tattered, grey book, which he tossed at Harry.

“That’s a book on the mind arts, Mr. Potter.  I want you to read the chapter on ‘occlumency’ and begin practicing the techniques it describes.  The wording of that prophecy needs to remain secret, and that book should help you learn to keep people out of your mind.  The Dark Lord knows the first half of the prophecy, but he doesn’t know the rest.  Best to keep him in the dark, no?”

“Out of my mind?” Harry asked in confusion.  “You mean it’s possible for someone to read my mind?”

“Not exactly,” said Croaker.  “But a skilled legilimens can look through your memories if he maintains eye contact and casts a certain spell.  Better safe than sorry.  The book will explain everything.”

Harry nodded and went back to his bed, a little disturbed at the idea that someone could gain access to his memories.  He wanted nothing more than to close his eyes and think through the awful revelations of the day.

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Malfoy Manor, The Dungeons, The Throne Room

“Well, Severus?”

“My Lord, they are as well as can be expected.  I have them on every replenishing potion that I know of, but it will be days before they are strong enough to fight.  Rabastan, in particular, is very weak.  And Bellatrix—,”

“Yes?” Voldemort prompted impatiently.

“Well, she…appears to have been affected rather…strongly…by the dementors…My Lord,” he added hastily.

“Indeed?”

Snape mentally cursed himself for making the mistake of criticizing Bellatrix.  She was the only Death Eater who occupied a special place in the Dark Lord’s “affections,” and one did not slight her heedlessly.

“I meant only that…that I will do my best to reverse their effects, and I’m certain that she will make a full recovery,” he backpedaled quickly, hoping to avoid a cruciatus.

The Dark Lord eyed Snape menacingly, but did not draw his wand.

“I’m certain she shall as well, Snape, for your sake.”

Snape’s eyes remained on the floor as he waited for his Master to continue or to dismiss him.  He could feel the eyes of other Death Eaters on him, many of them anticipating a round of potions-master torture.

“And what news of Potter?  You are certain that he and the old man are still at odds?”

“Completely certain, my Lord,” Snape said in barely concealed relief.  “He has had no communication with the boy since Bones took him in.”

Voldemort considered for a moment, then nodded approvingly.

“Wormtail!” he hissed.

The pudgy wizard in question came forth from the shadows.

“Yes, my Lord?”

“You are to maintain your watch at Bones Manor around the clock.  If the boy sets one foot outside the wards, take him.  If not, just watch and see what his habits are.  If Bones dies, he may lose his protection.”

“Yes, my Lord,” said Pettigrew, relieved to continue the assignment that kept him away from his Master.

“Everyone is dismissed,” Voldemort said imperiously, rising from his throne-like chair.  “Lucius, you stay.”

Snape and his fellows exited the room hastily.

Though Snape was pleased to have avoided torture, he was beyond irritated at his dismissal.  The Dark Lord purposefully kept him out of his planning sessions, ostensibly for the purpose of damage control.  Should Snape be captured and questioned, the Dark Lord wanted to limit the amount of damage his knowledge could do.  Or so Snape was told.  He dearly hoped that the Dark Lord had no indication of his true allegiances.

But his lack of access to the Dark Lord’s plans had just proven disastrous.  He had known in vague terms that yesterday’s operations were to occur, but he had been unable to provide any specific warnings to Dumbledore.  He was not even aware how the Dark Lord had acquired a special Ministry portkey to Azkaban.

Now it was growing imperative for Dumbledore to know of the Dark Lord’s future plans, and Snape was unsure how he could deliver.  He could only hope that their plan to finally take out Potter would be successful.  He was growing increasingly annoyed with his sense of impotence, and each passing day increased the likelihood that he would be exposed.

As Snape followed the stone corridor that led to his makeshift infirmary, Goyle fell in next to him, huffing to match Snape’s rapid stride.  “You’re a lucky bugger, you are,” the hulking Death Eater laughed.

Snape raised an irritated eyebrow, but did not deign to respond to the man.  Goyle had been a close friend of Jugson before his incarceration, and he had already made several visits to the infirmary to see his old friend.

Snape continued in silence, doing his best to hide the disgust he felt toward his companion.  Since the rescue of the imprisoned Death Eaters, he had been drafted to act as a healer of sorts.  Much of his potions expertise overlapped with that of healers, and he knew how to make simple diagnoses from working with Madam Pomfrey for over a decade.

It was a thankless and laborious task, and Snape felt that it was beneath him.  Plus it forced him to socialize with cretins like Jugson and psychopaths like Bellatrix far too much for his liking.  Bellatrix took great pleasure in goading him, and often made emasculating jokes about him in the presence of other Death Eaters.  If he could get away with poisoning the bitch, he would.

Snape sighed in exasperation as he and Goyle reached their destination.  He could hear Bellatrix cackling behind the door, likely at some joke made at her husband’s expense.

He honestly didn’t know how Rodolphus tolerated the woman.  She had no respect for him, and did not hesitate to insult him in front of others.  “Proper” pureblood women simply weren’t supposed to treat their husbands in such a manner.  The fact that she got away with it made Snape wonder just how close Bellatrix was, or had been, to the Dark Lord.  Certainly it was odd that she had borne Rodolphus no children.  Snape shuddered at the thought of Bellatrix and his “Master” together.

Goyle pushed past him and thrust open the door when Snape hesitated.  Snape plastered a sneer on his face and followed.  The Death Eaters were spread throughout the room in separate beds, some of them trying to sleep despite the hourly potions they were taking.  Bellatrix, reclining lazily against her pillow, greeted Snape with a snort.

“Well, if it isn’t tall, dark, and greasy, again,” she said, her sneer matching Snape’s.  “Come to give us another round of your foul-tasting concoctions, blood traitor?”

Snape sighed internally, but made no outward expression.  “Your wit is as sharp as ever, Bellatrix.  I never tire of it.”

Bellatrix cackled hoarsely.  “I bet you never tire of bending over for Dumbledore either, do you, Severus?”

Snape merely raised an eyebrow at her as he examined a row of potions that were brewing on a nearby counter.

“Bellatrix, it is unwise to antagonize the person who brews your potions.  And if our Master is confident of my allegiances, then surely you should have no qualms…Or do you doubt his judgment?” he said silkily.

Bellatrix hardened her jaw and spat on the floor near Snape.  “You don’t have the stones to poison me, you fucking greaseball.  And time will tell where your allegiances lie.  Perhaps our Master will give me the honor of gutting you like a fish when the time comes.”

“Charming,” sneered Snape, “the very embodiment of pureblood femininity.”

“Hand me that knife and I’ll acquaint you with your own femininity, you dickless traitor.”

Snape snorted and looked around at the other men in the room, none of whom had said a word in his defense.  They apparently thought it best not to attract Bella’s attention at all.  She was the Dark Lord’s most vicious fighter, and her personality in everyday life was no different than her personality in battle.  Clearly Azkaban had done nothing to dull the edges of her sadism.

Snape seethed internally as he turned and poured a new round of potions, but he did not antagonize Bellatrix further.  Just you wait, you fucking bitch.  As soon as we take down the Dark Lord, I’m going to kill you myself.  Your days are numbered.

His measuring complete, he approached Bellatrix’ bed and held out a smoking goblet for her.

“Here you are, my dear,” said Snape, giving her an oily smile.  “Make sure you drink all of it; we’ve got to restore those devastatingly, er, devastating looks of yours.”

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Hogwarts, Room of Requirement

Parvati sat in a padded leather chair that the room had provided for her, anxiously awaiting her conversation with Harry.  They had begun a nightly ritual of checking in with each other around 9PM, and it was now five minutes until the hour.

Yesterday evening’s conversation had been mostly casual, and Parvati was pleased that Harry seemed to be growing more comfortable with her.  He had even joked once about the naked goddess on her pendant, asking her if she rode tigers in the nude when she visited India.  Harry had told her yesterday that something important was going on, but he wasn’t sure what it was and nobody had given him an update.  The light-heartedness of their conversation now seemed ominous to her in retrospect.

With the morning had come the revelation of the Dark Lord’s return.  Parvati had known about it already, of course, but to see it accompanied by so many deaths brought it all home to her in a new way.

There had been shock, outrage, and panic when the Daily Prophet arrived at breakfast this morning.  Students were huddled in small groups, all of them incredulous, some of them crying.  She had read the news about Amelia Bones’ condition, and looked around in vain for Susan Bones.  Neither could she find Neville Longbottom at breakfast.

Parvati had gotten up discreetly from the table and rushed to the Come-and-Go Room to contact Harry, but he hadn’t answered his mirror.  Tonight she hoped he would be able to tell her more about what was happening, maybe even provide some reassurance.

Her heartbeat quickened as the mirror buzzed.

“Harry?”

“Hi, Parvati,” Harry said as his image appeared in her mirror.  “Guess you heard the big news today, huh?” he said dryly.

“I can’t believe it,” she said incredulously.  “So many people died, and those monsters from Azkaban are roaming free again.”

Harry nodded sadly.  “I heard about Neville’s gran; how did he react to the news?”

“I don’t know; he wasn’t at breakfast.  But the rumor is that he beat the crap out of Malfoy this morning.”

That brought a small smile to Harry’s face.  “Go Neville!” he chuckled.

“What about the Weasleys?” Harry asked tentatively.  “How did they take things?”

“I don’t know, Harry.  I didn’t see them at all today.  I didn’t see Susan Bones either.”

“Well, Susan isn’t here, so far as I know.  But she may come here as soon as Madam Bones recovers a little.  I’m sure she’s at the hospital.”

Parvati raised an inquisitive eyebrow at him.  “So you’re staying at Bones Manor, then?”

Harry looked suddenly panicked, then sighed and gave a resigned “shite.”

“Yeah, I’m at Bones Manor.  But you can’t tell anyone, Parvati.  Not a soul.  Dumbledore may already know, but it’s not safe for people to think you know where I am.  It’s not that I don’t trust you…”

“I know, Harry,” she smiled.  “Don’t worry; your secret’s safe with me.  I’ll just add it to the growing list.”

“Hmph,” Harry snorted, shaking his head.  “You don’t know the half of them, Parvati, I’m sorry to say.”

“Oh?” Parvati smirked at him, prodding him to continue.

“I—,” Harry began, then stopped himself.  “I’m not really supposed to talk about it, I guess.  I’m sorry.”

Parvati narrowed her eyes in mock outrage.  “C’mon, Harry!  You can’t tease me like that!  You can’t tell me you know secrets and then just clam up; besides, if it’s about the war I need to know, don’t I?”

He frowned, but looked at her thoughtfully.

“You don’t have to tell me, Harry,” Parvati said softly.  “I wasn’t really serious; I know there are some things that are just—personal.”

Harry closed his eyes and sighed.  Today truly had been an emotional rollercoaster for him, and he really did want to feel less alone with the burden he now carried.

“It’s—,” Harry began again, trying to find the words.  “I learned something today; something, well—it’s a bit overwhelming, I guess.”

Parvati waited patiently for him to continue.

“That prophecy I mentioned to you.  I found out what it says.  I can’t tell you what it says specifically, but basically it says I’ve got to kill Voldemort.”

Parvati exhaled sharply and looked at Harry in disbelief.

“What?!” she asked, shaking her head.

“Yeah,” Harry nodded morosely.  “You heard me right.  And not only that, but I may be required to die in the process.  The, er, person who told me this tried to convince me otherwise, but I’m pretty sure he was hiding something.”

“Oh Merlin, Harry,” gasped Parvati, her eyes tearing up, “that’s awful!  What…what are you going to do?”

Harry shrugged.  “I’m going to train, and I’m going to kill the ugly bastard, Parvati.  That’s what I’m going to do.  And if it kills me too, well—so be it, I guess.  I’m getting used to the idea of people trying to kill me, and being Harry Potter isn’t exactly what I’d call living anyway.”

“Harry!” she said, shocked at his morbid resignation.  “Don’t talk like that!”

Harry shrugged again.  “It’s just the truth, Parvati.  I don’t have much reason to worry about staying alive.  Most of the people I know want me dead, including my so-called friends.  And, yeah, I know it sounds like I’m whining, but it doesn’t really bother me that much.  Not anymore.”

“Harry, I…” Parvati said, but didn’t know how to continue.  “I don’t know what to say.  It just, er, sounds like you’re giving up.”

Harry shook his head resolutely.  “No, Parvati.  I’m not giving up.  I’m going to kill Voldemort.  I just…I know I can.  I’m just saying…well, I’m not that afraid to die anymore, I guess.  Maybe that will give me an advantage.”

“Well,” Parvati said, glaring slightly into the mirror, “don’t go being stupid and rash, Harry.  I’m just getting to know you, and I’d hate to think I’ve wasted my time talking to someone who’s suicidal.”

That brought a small, sad smile to Harry’s face.  “I’ll try not to disappoint you, Parvati.  You have been very nice to me,” he said thoughtfully.  “I didn’t mean to freak you out; I guess I just needed to say that stuff out loud.”

“I understand, Harry,” she said, “but really, you’ve got friends, so don’t go disappointing them by getting yourself killed.”

Harry grinned at her.  “Well, thank you for thinking of me as your friend, Parvati.  I, er, feel the same.”

“Well, don’t forget it then,” said Parvati, and stuck out her tongue at him.  “And no more talk about dying!  I don’t want to hear it.”

“Yes ma’am,” Harry chuckled.

Their conversation continued for another half hour, Parvati endeavoring to improve Harry’s mood despite the terrible knowledge he had just imparted to her.  When she considered her job complete, she rose from her seat.

“I need to go, Harry.  Some of us still have homework to do despite all this.”

“Hey!” Harry retorted.  “I have homework too…it’s just that I’m learning how to kill people.”

Parvati snorted.  “Oh, how charming.  I’ll talk to you tomorrow, Harry Potter.  Stay safe.”

“Bye, Parvati.”

Parvati closed her mirror and sighed heavily.  Harry had just dumped a serious amount of angst on her, even if he seemed resigned to it all.  She couldn’t imagine having the pressure of defeating Voldemort resting on her shoulders, let alone as an untrained teenager.  The very idea sounded absurd.

Not for the first time she wondered why she was still communicating with Harry.  She didn’t feel equipped to help him in any significant way, and being The-Boy-Who-Lived was far more dangerous than she had ever imagined.

She had once dreamed of dating Harry, but those hopes had been dashed brutally by his treatment of her at the Yule Ball.  But now she was getting to know the real Harry Potter, and she found herself looking forward to her daily mirror conversations with him.  He was such a mystery to her; such an odd combination of naivete, earnestness, and courage.  She found it endearing, and was flattered that he seemed to enjoy talking to her too.

But she also felt conflicted.  It felt like Harry was pulling her slowly but inexorably into a confusing, dangerous world that she wanted no part of.  She was excited to be involved in the intrigue of Harry’s life, but it also scared her and made her feel alienated from her other friends.  For the last three weeks she had been spending less time with Lavender, and their gossip sessions about Hogwarts’ dating drama seemed newly hollow to her.

What am I doing? Parvati wondered, packing her things to return to the Gryffindor Common Room.  She absentmindedly opened the door to the Come-and-Go Room and stepped outside.

She made it two steps into the hallway and suddenly stopped in surprise.

Leaning against the wall in front of her was Hermione Granger, her wand pointed directly ahead.

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A/N: Thanks for reading.  Special shout out to nxkris, fibinaci, and Voice of the Nephilim for reviewing nearly every chapter.  I appreciate it!

Next chapter, Hermione confronts Parvati, Madam Bones returns, and Harry takes a portkey ride.