Dealing with Danger
Chapter 51: Healing Touch (Year 4)
By Anne B. Walsh
Chapter 51: Healing Touch
“How is he?”
Harry opened his eyes and got them focused with an effort. Professor Dumbledore was kneeling beside him, looking drawn.
“I think he’s all right,” Padfoot answered. “Harry?”
Another moment of effort, and Harry recalled how his mouth worked. “’m OK,” he said fuzzily. “Couple things hurt.” He couldn’t talk and keep his eyes open at the same time, so he let them fall shut again. “Don’t want to do that again.”
“I am sorry you had to do it at all,” said Dumbledore. “Do you feel well enough to tell me what happened?”
“Not really.”
“I think a restorative might be in order,” said Letha from somewhere nearby. “Harry? Look at me, baby.”
Harry opened his eyes again. Letha smiled at him. “That’s my boy. Can you make it up to the castle with help?”
“I’ll try.”
“Will you await me in the hospital wing?” Dumbledore asked Letha as Padfoot helped Harry stand up. “I should deal with a few things here before joining you.”
“We’ll do that.” Letha hurried off towards the castle.
“I’d levitate you if I could, Greeneyes,” Padfoot murmured to Harry, “but people would take it the wrong way. Just keep going until we’re inside.”
Harry gave a little nod, most of his concentration on putting one foot in front of the other. Every time he stepped on the leg that had run into the spider’s pincers, pain shot up through his groin and torso and into the opposite ear, and his head seemed to have a small man inside it determined to break out by splitting it open along the line of his scar.
They were off the grass now, going up stairs, through a door which closed behind them with a loud boom. Padfoot stopped and changed his grip on Harry, and Harry, understanding dimly what was going on, put his arms around his godfather’s neck, as if he were three again.
“That’s my boy,” Padfoot murmured to him. “That’s my Harry. Just hold on, now. You don’t have to do any more tonight.”
Harry sighed in relief as his feet left the ground and his injured leg reduced its complaints to a pulsing ache. “Thanks,” he mumbled, then let his head fall to Padfoot’s shoulder and watched the stairs go by. There were other people he should be thinking about, he was sure of it, but he couldn’t think of any of their names...
xXxXx
Ron rinsed his mouth out with the water Mum had conjured for him and spat again into the basin Bill had hastily provided. “I think I was stupid,” he said shakily.
“What was your first clue?” Draco asked without looking away from Luna, whose hand he was holding.
“I think it was brave,” said Hermione huffily. “Stupid, yes, but brave.”
“That’s our Ronniekins,” said George. “Stupid, yet brave.”
“So what did he do, exactly?” Fred inquired. “I’m still not entirely clear on all this.”
“Neither are we,” said Neville, rubbing Meghan’s wrists as she lay on the bench. “And we live with it.”
“Ron shielded us,” Ginny said. “We were all connected to each other, and to Harry, and Voldemort got into Harry’s mind.”
Mum gasped, whether from Ginny’s saying the name or from the concept Ron couldn’t tell. The twins and Bill stared at Ginny respectfully.
“If Ron hadn’t shielded us, he would have known we were all there,” Ginny went on. “This way, he only knows about Ron.”
“So You-Know-Who’s after your arse, little brother,” said Fred, shaking his head. “I’d say that’s pretty stupid.”
“Watch your language,” Mum scolded, smacking Fred on the ear.
“Is that really what you did?” George asked Ron.
“Yeah.” Ron swallowed experimentally. His stomach seemed to be calming down, as long as he didn’t think too hard about what it felt like to have that slimy green stuff inside his mind, touching him...
All right, think about something else. Anything else. Purple quintaped, purple quintaped, purple quintaped.
“Ron, I’m so proud of you,” Mum said, and Ron looked up, startled, just in time to be enveloped by one of his mother’s patented hugs. “What a brave thing to have done... shielding your sister, and all your friends, from You-Know-Who... are you sure it was him, Ron?” She pulled away to look him in the face. “Are you really sure?”
Ron nodded, then gulped. “I’m sure,” he said, clenching his jaw after the words.
“Oh, dear.” Mum hugged him again. “I never wanted you to know war,” she said over his shoulder. “But I suppose now we won’t be able to avoid it.”
“We’ll meet it together,” Bill said. “Weasleys can do anything together.”
“Weasley power,” the twins chorused. “Power to the redheads!”
“Don’t forget about us,” said Hermione. “We’re in this too.”
“Of course you are.” Mum let go of Ron with one arm to hug Hermione briefly. “Who better?”
xXxXx
Harry wiped his eyes, which were watering from the heat of the potion Madam Pomfrey had just given him. His head was starting to clear. He wished it weren’t.
“He’s back,” he said, looking up at Padfoot. “Voldemort’s back.”
“I know.” Padfoot sat down beside Harry’s bed. Letha didn’t look up from cleaning out the spider-inflicted wound on Harry’s leg. “You told us that much out on the field. Hold on to the rest until Dumbledore can hear it. I don’t think you want to tell it twice.”
Harry shook his head. He didn’t want to tell it once – telling it would be like living it over again – but he had to tell. People deserved to know. Cedric’s parents deserved to know...
“Cedric,” he said, or thought he said. It came out as a raspy croak, and he had to stop and force his throat open before he could go on. “What’s happened with Cedric?”
“Everything’s been taken care of, Harry,” Letha said. “Pomona’s with his parents right now, and Hagrid’s taken charge of... the other arrangements.”
“Just say it,” Harry said angrily. “Hagrid has his body. I know what it is. I saw it, I touched it. I’m not four years old anymore.”
“I know.” Letha lifted her head and met his eyes. “But it still hurts me to see you hurt this way.” Her hand rested on his leg, now healed. “Because I love you.”
“Funny way to show it,” Harry mumbled, turning away. “Playing stupid word games.” His throat was closing again, but he was not going to cry. He hadn’t cried when it happened; why should he cry now?
He pushed Padfoot’s hand off his shoulder. He didn’t need his family smothering him. Coddling was for babies, and he had to be grown-up now, he couldn’t let them shelter him anymore...
The hospital wing doors opened quietly, and people started trickling in, few by few. Mrs. Weasley was first, her arm around a tearful Ginny, and Harry felt a slight lurch in his stomach. Was Ginny crying over Cedric?
Bill and Ron were just behind the two witches, the older Weasley hovering protectively near his younger brother, who looked rather green. “’Lo, Harry,” Ron said hoarsely, waving. “All right now, mate?”
Harry shrugged. “I guess. What about you?”
“Tossed his cookies,” said Fred, coming in behind Ron. “Harry, is it true?”
“Is what true?”
“Was Ron really in your head?” George asked. “With You-Know-Who?”
Ginny rounded on the twins with a feline snarl. “Shut up! What’s wrong with you? Leave him alone!”
“It’s all right, Ginny,” Harry said, feeling oddly contradictory. Part of him wanted to smile at her protectiveness, but another part wanted nothing to do with her – she, and the rest of the Pride, had abandoned him when Voldemort entered his mind... “Yeah, it’s true. He stuck with me.”
“I blocked him off from seeing anybody else,” Ron put in, sitting down on the bed next to Harry’s. “Figured he was coming in anyway, so it’d be better if he didn’t know about all of us.”
Harry blinked. “Oh.”
Hermione raced into the room and practically threw herself on Harry, pulling back just enough that she didn’t bowl him over. “You’re alive,” she panted. “Oh, Harry, you’re alive...”
“Won’t be if you keep choking me,” Harry gasped.
Hermione let go hastily. “Sorry.” She sat down on the edge of Ron’s bed, watching him oddly. “Harry... did you do anything to any of the other champions? While you were in the maze, I mean?”
“Don’t talk around it, Hermione, just say it out. What did Krum tell you?”
“He said your spell had ended his chances for the Cup,” Hermione recited quickly. “But I can’t believe you’d do something like that...”
“No, he’s right,” said Harry, looking his sister in the eye. “I Stunned him. And you want to know why? Because he was casting the Cruciatus on Cedric! That’s why! I stopped him using an Unforgivable Curse, and he has the bloody balls to go and accuse me...” Fury choked him off as Hermione stared at him, aghast.
“No one’s accusing you of anything, Harry,” said Moony from the door. “Thank you, Letha,” he added as Letha slid her arm around Danger’s waist, freeing him.
Hermione turned quickly away from Harry. “Danger, what’s wrong?”
“Nothing terrible, sweetheart,” Danger said, smiling weakly as she sank onto an empty bed. “I just got hit on the head, through my own carelessness. Harry, are you all right?”
“I’m fine.” Harry sat down, wondering when he’d stood up. The hospital wing, though no smaller than usual, suddenly seemed stuffy and airless. He wanted to get out and run, run forever, leave behind the memories of the graveyard and the terror and Cedric’s limp hand in his as he Summoned the Cup and prayed he was right about Portkeys...
At the end of the room, Moony opened a window and casually flicked his wand at it, creating a breeze. Harry breathed deeply, catching the bouquet of smells coming from the grounds and the Forest, and relaxed a little.
“Sorry, everyone,” he said without looking up from his hands.
“Nothing to apologize for, Harry,” Padfoot said behind him. A hand rested on his back for a moment before being withdrawn.
Harry drew his knees up to his chest and wrapped his arms around them. A sudden sting in the crook of his left arm made him hiss. He’d almost forgotten about the place Wormtail had cut him.
“What is it?” Letha said from the end of the bed.
Harry turned his head away. “Nothing.”
“Harry, I understand you don’t want me to treat you like a child, but if you act like one I have no other choice.” Letha moved closer to him and tapped his knee, and Harry grudgingly looked back at her. “Please show me where you’re hurt.”
Harry wanted to snap at his Pack-mother, but her tone was calm and reasonable, and he couldn’t find the energy to pretend it had been anything else. “On my left arm,” he said. “But it’s part of the story Dumbledore wanted to hear. I don’t know if you should do anything yet.”
“May I look at it, then?”
Harry nodded, and Letha peeled back his sleeve carefully. “Not too bad,” she said, looking at the small gash near the inside of his elbow. “But as you like, I’ll leave it for the moment.”
“Speaking of Dumbledore, where is he?” Moony said, pulling up a chair. “I thought he’d be here before this.”
“He said he had things to take care of down on the pitch,” Padfoot said. “Merlin only knows what.”
“He’ll be here soon,” said Luna. Harry looked up, startled, to see the girl sitting on the bed across from his, with her father on one side of her and Draco on the other. “He had to talk to Krum.”
“Why, is something wrong?” Hermione asked.
“I don’t know,” Luna said. “But I think so. Krum kept asking where the snow was, and what was going on, and if he’d missed the second task.”
“Second task?” Ron repeated.
Draco shrugged. “That’s what it sounded like.”
The adults exchanged knowing looks. Harry clenched his fists. They think we’re still babies, they don’t tell us anything, they don’t think we can handle it...
“It sounds like the Imperius Curse to me,” said Mrs. Weasley. “Abruptly broken, at that. But who would have put Viktor Krum under Imperius?”
“Igor Karkaroff,” said Danger, sitting up. “He was a Death Eater once, and I’m sure he planned to be one again.”
“But he named names,” Padfoot objected. “They wouldn’t take him back.”
“They’d take him if he brought them something Voldemort couldn’t do without,” said Moony. “Something no one else could bring.”
Harry twisted his head to look at his Pack-fathers. “Something like me?”
“Yes, Harry.” Moony’s face was grave. “Something exactly like you.”
“You sound sure,” said Letha. “And you both disappeared not long after Harry did, and Danger smells of smoke. What happened?”
Moony opened his mouth to speak, but Danger forestalled him. “Karkaroff is dead,” she said bluntly. “He tried to kill me, and I panicked and killed him instead.”
A small laugh found its way through the confusion in Harry’s feelings. He couldn’t help it. Moony was usually so poised that it was delightful, in a terribly mean way, to see him sitting with his mouth hanging open. A moment later, Moony winced and shut his eyes, but Harry had seen the telltale swirls of brown start in them. He had no idea what his Pack-mum was shouting about, but he didn’t doubt that was what she was doing.
Mrs. Weasley was fussing over Danger at the other end of the room, while Padfoot and Letha looked skeptically at one another. Hermione was curled up on the bed with her face in her hands, and Ron and Ginny were talking quietly with Bill.
The doors of the hospital wing opened once more, admitting Mr. and Mrs. Longbottom with Neville and a wobbly-looking Meghan. Letha got up hastily. “Frank, Alice, thank you,” she said, hugging Meghan. “I’m so sorry we left her on your hands.”
“It’s what friends are for,” Mrs. Longbottom said, helping Neville sit down on an unoccupied bed. “You’ve taken care of Neville often enough when we couldn’t.”
Harry squinted at his friend. Neville looked different... something about his hair, but Harry couldn’t pinpoint it...
“Dumbledore’s on his way up,” said Mr. Longbottom, finding a chair. “How’s Harry?”
Harry gritted his teeth. If one more person talked about him, as if he were a baby or a chair or not even in the room...
“Nothing wrong with his ears,” said Padfoot. “Or his mouth.”
“Old habits,” said Mr. Longbottom apologetically. “Part of me still sees you as a year old, Harry, I am sorry. How are you?”
“Fine.” Mr. Longbottom’s apology, though it had cooled Harry’s anger, hadn’t made it go away. He was still seething inside, burning like a too-hot fire in an oven, ready to explode and burn up everything in sight, burn up the entire world, burn up all the pain and the confusion and the grief and guilt that were the fuel for the fire in the first place...
“My apologies for the wait, everyone,” said a quiet voice, and Albus Dumbledore stepped into the hospital wing. “Harry, especially to you. However, I now know more than I did about the events of this past year, enough to place blame where it is due for what has happened tonight. Danger, what has become of Igor Karkaroff?”
“I killed him,” Danger said again. “In self-defense, when he tried to kill me.”
Dumbledore, who had stiffened at the first phrase, let his shoulders relax at the second. “Go on.”
“He had a special modification made to his wand,” Danger said. “All he had to do was hold it and say a trigger word, and it would turn into a staff. He hit me with it. I remember panicking, and I must have shouted a spell, or part of one, because when Remus found me, he also found Karkaroff, burned to death.”
“I see,” Dumbledore said slowly. “It is... not a catastrophe.”
“But you wish it hadn’t happened,” said Moony with some bitterness in his voice. Harry looked from one Pack-parent to the other, and suspicion began to creep into his mind. Danger needed no spell to create fire, but Harry remembered the horror she’d displayed when she’d had to kill Quirrell in his first year. She wouldn’t have done that again, possibly not even to save her own life. Moony, on the other hand... especially if Danger were in trouble...
“I do wish that, but no one can reclaim the past,” Dumbledore said. “And Danger’s death would have been far worse, for everyone.” He came down the aisle between the beds and stopped in front of Harry’s.
Harry looked dully up at his Headmaster. The fire inside him had disappeared, leaving an empty ache in its place.
“I would not ask you to do this if I thought there were any easier way, Harry,” Dumbledore said quietly. “But putting off the pain will make it worse, not better. What you have done tonight proves beyond all doubt that you are worthy to be what I named you soon after the second task. Now I must ask you to display one more sign of courage. I must ask you to tell me what happened.” His eyes moved left and right, then came back to Harry. “We can be private for it, if you wish.”
“No,” Harry said without thinking, then let his brain catch up with his mouth. “No. They deserve to know too.” He smiled a little. “This way, I don’t have to tell it twice.”
“True enough.” Dumbledore drew up a chair and seated himself. “Begin when you are ready.”
Harry shut his eyes and reached inside himself for the courage Dumbledore had talked about, but it seemed to have disappeared with the fire of anger he’d felt earlier. All he could find now was tiredness, and a wish to rest, to sleep, to make it all go away...
But I can’t make Voldemort go away by wishing. He’s not a bad dream. He’s back, and he wants me dead. Dumbledore has to know as much as I can tell him.
He felt Padfoot’s hand on his back again, and twitched angrily to shrug it off. Would you just leave me alone? You don’t want to know me. I’m bad luck to know. People die around me.
For a second, he watched Cedric fall again, felt again the disbelieving fury that had filled him at the sight. Maybe if I tell about it, it’ll leave me alone.
Opening his eyes, he began. “The Triwizard Cup was a Portkey. It took us to a graveyard...”
xXxXx
Silence filled the hospital wing, thick and tangible, for a few moments after Harry finished. Then Dumbledore slowly rose. “I must repeat myself, Harry,” he said. “You have shown courage beyond anything I could have dared to hope this night. You have done what few grown wizards have done or could do. I ask you to speak with me privately for one moment, and then I will leave you in peace.”
Harry slid off the bed to follow Dumbledore to the end of the room, behind one of the screens and a Privacy Spell.
“I saw you reject Sirius’ touch,” Dumbledore began. Harry looked up, surprised by the topic of conversation. “And you were unusually drawn-in while you spoke. The Harry I know would have been seeking comfort from those around him during such a harrowing tale.”
“Well, maybe the Harry you know was a whiny little brat,” Harry said bitterly. “I can’t let people baby me anymore. I have to grow up now.”
“Grow up, yes. But must you reject all ties to the life you had before?”
“It’s not about that!” Harry shouted, suddenly desperate for someone to understand. “I can’t let them be close to me! People who are close to me die! Cedric died because of me! I made Ron ill, and I hurt everyone when I was so angry – Meghan fainted because I hurt her so much! And now they’re all targets, he can go after them to hurt me, and I don’t want them to be!” He ran out of anger abruptly, and sagged where he sat. “I can’t,” he repeated feebly. “I can’t let them.”
“Mmm.” Dumbledore seemed to be thinking hard. “Tell me something, Harry,” he said after a few moments. “If you did not know these people – if, through some odd set of circumstances, you had never met any of them – do you think they would still choose to fight against Lord Voldemort?”
“Huh? Of course.”
“Even though they know that fighting in a war is dangerous, that they might die?”
“They wouldn’t care.” Harry stopped. “No, they’d care. But they’d do it anyway. That’s how they are.”
“That is how they are,” Dumbledore repeated. “Exactly. They know what they want, and do it without overmuch thought to how dangerous it might be. And even were you not involved, they would still be fighting, risking their lives for what they believe is right. So why will you deny yourself their companionship, their love, when that is what they want and part of what they will fight for?”
“But...” Harry struggled to find the words. “I don’t want to be the reason anyone else dies,” he said finally.
“No one does, Harry, but if you cut yourself off from all human ties because you fear pain, then Voldemort has already won.”
“What?”
“Hear me out,” said Dumbledore, raising a hand to still Harry’s amazed outburst. “Voldemort cares for nothing and no one, apart from what they can do for him. He would dispose of all his Death Eaters–”
“Don’t talk down to me!” Harry shouted. “Just say it, just say what you mean!”
“Very well. Voldemort would kill all his Death Eaters, even the most devoted, if doing so would benefit him more than not doing so. He believes that anyone who does not take this view of life, anyone who values another person for more than that person’s extrinsic value, is a fool. He may be right. But he lives without love, without care, without hope or joy beyond that which his twisted goals bring him, and that, to me, seems a fair definition of hell on earth. Do you agree?”
Silently, Harry nodded.
“You know the beginning of the prophecy about yourself already,” Dumbledore said. “I will tell you another part. He – the one who may vanquish the Dark Lord – he will have power the Dark Lord knows not. Lord Voldemort is well acquainted with all forms of power, Harry. All forms, save one. He knows nothing, nor does he wish to know, of the power of love. And it is that power which holds your Pack and your Pride together, which has allowed you to do the impossible many times over, which has brought you safely thus far. I think it is no bad thing to trust in that same power to lead you home.”
Harry’s throat twisted, and he had to look away before the burning in his eyes spilled out.
“May I fetch them?” Dumbledore asked gently.
Harry didn’t say anything, couldn’t say anything, but he heard Dumbledore stand up, heard the Headmaster leave the Privacy Spell, and moments later, felt strong, gentle arms around him, two pairs, one from each side. “We’re here, Harry,” Danger’s voice whispered over Letha’s quiet humming. “Let it out, now.”
Harry buried his face against Letha’s shoulder, and a great wail of misery clawed its way out of his throat as everything he’d seen, everything he’d done, and everything he hadn’t done that night came crashing down around him. The only things left were the arms holding him and the voice that was humming an old lullaby, one it seemed he’d always known.
Oh my love, you are my child...
xXxXx
A long, long time later, or perhaps only a little while, Harry ran out of tears, and his sobs died away into stillness. Danger held him now, rocking him gently in her arms. Letha’s hands were warm on his back, rubbing away the tightness in his muscles as she crooned softly to him.
“Nowhere’s safe anymore,” Harry mumbled. “We’re not even safe here.”
“Probably true,” said Danger without stopping what she was doing. “But every warrior needs rest, and people he can trust, and times to be happy. Without that, what are we fighting for?”
Harry sighed deeply, and pulled away, sitting up. “You’re too smart,” he said. “You keep beating me.”
“Give yourself some time, Harry. I’ve lived more than twice as long as you have.”
“Yes, you have that on your side,” said Letha. “A hundred and forty combined years of experience among the four of us.”
“Not even the Great Lord of Darkness has been around that long,” said Danger, bowing slightly to Letha. “And that’s not even counting the rest of you, young in years but old in sneakiness.”
“We’ll get through this, Harry,” Letha said, holding out her hand. Harry took it. “I won’t make any promises I can’t keep, like swearing that we’ll all make it, but we will get through this. And we will win.”
Harry smiled half-heartedly. “Promise?”
“That, I promise. We will win.” Letha pressed his hand and released it.
Danger cocked her head as if listening, though no sound passed through the Privacy Spell. “Something’s going on out there,” she said. “Someone arguing...” Her eyebrows went up. “Oh my. I think maybe we should see this.”
Letha drew her wand and removed the Privacy Spell, and an angry man’s voice was suddenly revealed.
“–think that maybe he has no reason to lie? That he’s not after your precious job, and he’s not out to make trouble – for Merlin’s sake, Cornelius, he wants to prevent trouble!”
“Prevent trouble?” Fudge sounded totally incredulous. “Bartemius, surely you don’t believe...”
“I do.”
Harry peered around the end of the screen. The hospital wing contained most of the same people who had been there when he’d left, though they’d shifted around some. The Weasley twins were gone, and Neville was sitting in a bed near the screen, looking much restored –
But he does have white hair by his ears. What happened to him?
“I do believe it, as I think I’ve made quite clear,” Crouch went on, staring Fudge down near the entrance to the hospital wing. The door was still swinging, probably after Madam Pomfrey’s hasty exit to go get Dumbledore and have him remove the noisy people from her domain, Harry thought in amusement.
Neville had noticed Harry now, and when he saw that he had Harry’s attention in return, he made a gesture down in front of his eyes. Do you want me to un-notice you? he was asking.
Harry nodded, and Neville’s lips moved for a moment, though he looked tired again when he’d finished. Harry threw him an apology, but Neville waved it off. I’m all right, he signed. Listen to this!
Harry slipped out from behind the screen and found a bed to sit on, listening.
“–spoken a falsehood in his life, and has done his utmost to fight evil. Why would a man like Albus Dumbledore lower himself to a foolish lie that no child would believe, unless it were true? I’ve spoken with Viktor Krum, as you obviously haven’t bothered to. I’ve heard all the things he’s recalled being forced to do under the Imperius – taking the spell off Potter’s hostage in the middle of the second task, cutting the cables on a backdrop during the play, using an Unforgivable Curse tonight...”
Ron was goggling at Crouch. So, as the words sank in, was Harry. Krum was the one. He took the spell off Ron, he nearly killed me with the backdrop...
“And there’s what I’ve recalled myself,” Crouch went on over Fudge’s attempts to get a word in. “Karkaroff used the Imperius on me, Cornelius. I fell under it very nicely. Probably a remnant of the months I spent under it while no one but my secretary thought enough of it to come to my house looking for me.” He glared at Fudge. “I placed false handles on the Triwizard Cup, handles Karkaroff gave me, handles that were probably already Portkeys. It’s as much my fault the Diggory boy is dead as it is anyone else’s.”
“But – but – Bartemius, you must see how this looks. Bad enough Karkaroff is dead, worse that it’s in suspicious circumstances, but accusing him of being in league with He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named? And as good as saying – no, saying, outright saying – that He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named has returned?” Fudge held out his hands helplessly. “I’ll be a laughingstock! They’ll claim I’m trying to cover up for the woman who killed him, that she’s my mistress or some such absurd thing!”
“In your dreams,” Harry heard Danger mutter, and had to stifle a laugh.
The doors to the hospital wing opened wide. Madam Pomfrey bustled in, followed by Dumbledore and Snape. “Here,” she said curtly to the two Ministry officials. “Here’s the Headmaster, now do your business and be done with it! And call me when you’re finished, so that I can do my business!” She stomped into her office and shut the door.
Harry kicked his shoes off and slid his feet under the covers of the bed he was sitting on. He caught Neville’s eye. Take it off me? he signed.
Neville nodded, and after a moment various eyes in the room flickered to him. Dumbledore’s were among them, and Snape’s, but neither Crouch’s nor Fudge’s were.
“In deference to Madam Pomfrey, gentlemen, and to the students and parents present, perhaps we can keep our business brief, and quiet,” Dumbledore said. “What was it you needed to ask me, Cornelius?”
Fudge fiddled with his hat. “I wanted to know,” he said, “what you’re going to do about this absurd rumor.”
“What rumor is this?”
“The rumor that He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named has returned – that he was behind all the disruptions of the Triwizard Tournament – that he was behind Diggory’s death! For heaven’s sake, Dumbledore, you can’t go around saying things like that!”
“Not even if they happen to be true?”
“But it can’t be true!” Fudge objected. “The man is dead! He’s been dead for thirteen years!”
“Not dead, Cornelius. Missing. Lord Voldemort was unlike other men...” Dumbledore ignored Fudge’s violent start and Crouch’s shiver. “...by his own design, in many ways. It is not surprising that what would have killed another man merely... how shall I say it? Disembodied him. Nor that he struggled, with all that was left to him, to restore himself to a body. And as of tonight, he has succeeded.”
“And on whose authority do you have that?” demanded Fudge, drawing himself up to his full height. “Who witnessed this... this... re-embodiment?”
Dumbledore’s eyes flicked down the ward again before he answered. “Harry Potter.”
“Ah, of course.” Fudge sounded oddly pleased. “And who else? Did anyone else see it?”
“No one living.” Dumbledore’s voice held quiet grief, and Harry knew in that moment how much it had hurt him to see Cedric dead, how much the Headmaster must have hoped that he would never lose another of his students to Lord Voldemort. “But we have the evidence of Viktor Krum, who is regaining the memories of the months he spent under Igor Karkaroff’s Imperius Curse, and the things Karkaroff said to him while it was happening. Karkaroff seems to have mentioned ‘the Dark Lord’ repeatedly, and to occasionally have given Viktor a chance to join the Death Eaters of his own free will.”
“But, of course, Karkaroff is dead, so we can’t question him.” Fudge had a little smile on his face.
Harry balled up a fist, then let go. Hitting the Minister of Magic would not be a good way to end his day.
“We have no evidence at all that he wasn’t merely a lunatic, reliving his so-called ‘glory days’ – I won’t argue that he was once affiliated with the Death Eaters, it’s a matter of record, but think about it, Dumbledore. Off in that lonely castle, with no decent society whatsoever, and the sort of curriculum that place teaches, would it be so surprising if the man had simply snapped?”
“Do you then doubt Harry Potter’s story, Cornelius?” Dumbledore asked evenly.
“Yes, Dumbledore, to put it quite plainly, I do. Or are you going to deny the article that ran in the Prophet this morning? Is Potter, or is he not, a Parselmouth?”
Danger snapped her fingers at Harry, then shook her head firmly. Harry pouted, but he knew she was right.
Though he still thought it would have been funny to say, “Sure I am, why d’you care?” in Parseltongue.
“He is,” Dumbledore said. “But that has nothing to do with his intelligence, his sanity, or his truthfulness, all of which are excellent.”
Fudge sniffed. “And I suppose you’re also going to tell me his screaming nightmares and funny turns have ‘nothing to do with it’?” he said. “Still cries for his parents at night – not surprising, considering who raised him–”
“That’s not true,” Harry said, suddenly unable to stay quiet for another instant. “Stop insulting my family.”
Fudge jumped, turned, and stared at Harry. “Where – how – were you–” He turned back to Dumbledore and Crouch. “Was he there?” he demanded.
“Harry has been in this room since I entered it,” Dumbledore said gravely. “You could ask someone who has been here longer, perhaps.” He gestured to the silent watchers on the beds, Mrs. Weasley, Bill, and Ginny on Ron’s, Mr. Lovegood and Draco on Luna’s, Padfoot and Letha on Meghan’s and Neville’s parents on his, and Moony and Hermione and Danger sitting together on an empty bed.
Fudge ignored this. “Dumbledore, you can’t ignore the facts. Potter’s unbalanced, and Karkaroff was a lunatic, and whatever he thought he was doing, wherever he sent those boys, it pushed Potter over the edge–”
The Pride gasped almost as one. Harry was about to shout when a Silencing Spell caught him in the mouth, and a Sticking Charm landed on his legs the instant after that. Stuck to the bed, unable to make a sound, all he could do was glare at Moony. You’ll be sorry, he signed.
You’d be sorrier, Moony signed back curtly. Stay put.
“How dare you!” Mrs. Weasley cried out. “Harry Potter is as sane as any child I know!”
“Thank you, Molly,” Dumbledore said quietly, then turned back to Fudge. “Are you suggesting, Cornelius, that Harry Potter killed Cedric Diggory?”
Fudge seemed to realize, for the first time, that he was in a room full of people who cared about Harry Potter, and that most of those people were fingering their wands meaningfully. “I – well, I – no, I suppose I don’t,” he finished weakly. “But neither do I believe that He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named did it!” He looked around again, finally coming back to the Headmaster. “What is it you want from me, Dumbledore?” he asked plaintively. “Perhaps, a few reasonable things...”
Dumbledore shook his head. “What you would call reasonable, Cornelius, would not be effective. I have only two immediate suggestions, as it happens, though I doubt you will like either.”
“Well, let’s hear them.” Fudge was suddenly jolly again, like an uncle with a favorite, though demanding, nephew. “We can’t know until we’ve tried, can we?”
“The first one pertains to Azkaban prison. The dementors must be removed from guard duty there immediately–”
“What?” Fudge’s eyes popped. “Have you lost your mind, Dumbledore? The dementors are the only thing keeping that prison safe! Without them there, we’d lose half our law enforcement to mere guarding duties–”
“And with them there, you have handed over your wand to your opponent,” Dumbledore broke in. “Dementors are creatures of darkness, Cornelius, and they will join Lord Voldemort the instant he asks them! And when they do, not only will Azkaban, and the Death Eaters within, be unguarded, but Voldemort will have a fighting force whose very existence destroys morale, and which is especially dangerous to Muggles, who cannot see dementors!”
“Yes, yes, I’m sure, but all this is presupposing–”
“The other thing you must do immediately,” Dumbledore went on, “is find the giants of Britain, and make alliance with them.”
“Ally with – with giants?”
“If you do not, Voldemort certainly will, and giants excel at destruction. Unless you reach them first, it is on Voldemort’s commands that they will destroy, and spread their destruction across more of the land than ever before.” Dumbledore’s excitement was gone; he spoke calmly now, as he might to a student who failed to grasp an error in classwork.
“Is it proof you want, Minister?” Snape asked roughly. “Proof that the Dark Lord has returned? Here.” He pulled back his left sleeve and thrust his arm into Fudge’s face. “The Dark Mark. When the Dark Lord was defeated by the infant Potter, the Mark faded from the arm of every Death Eater. It has been growing clearer all year. Tonight it burned black with his summons. He has returned.”
Harry saw Crouch’s eyes widen, his lips tremble, as he looked at Snape’s arm. Fudge was shrinking back from it, swallowing hard. Dumbledore seemed unmoved.
“Not even you ever called me a fool, Cornelius,” Crouch said after a moment. “And I believe what I’m hearing. So should you. Think of the risk if you’re wrong. Do you want to be remembered in history as the weak Minister who let a Dark wizard rise to power unchecked?”
Fudge backed away. “I’ve given you a lot of latitude over the years, both of you,” he said. “Let you do your jobs, even when you did some things I didn’t agree with. But banding together against me–”
“I am not against you, Cornelius,” said Dumbledore gently. “I am against Lord Voldemort. As long as you are also against him, we are still at one.”
“I cannot be against what no longer exists,” Fudge snapped. “Here.” He pulled a sack from his pocket and handed it to Crouch, who was closest to him. “See that Potter gets this. I will owl you tomorrow, Dumbledore, about the way this school is being run.”
Clapping his lime-green bowler hat onto his head, Cornelius Fudge hurried from the hospital wing.
Harry felt Moony’s spells dissolve away from him. “Thanks,” he said, rubbing at his lips. “I think.”
“Consider what could happen, Harry, if the Minister of Magic thought you were insane,” said Moony quietly, for Harry’s ears alone. “He even has power to override parental rights, for cases where parents can’t accept that their child is a danger to others.”
Harry shivered. “If you’re trying to scare me, it’s working,” he said.
“Not scare you. Just warn you.” Moony swung his legs over the bed and came to sit on Harry’s. “I don’t want you ever living through anything worse than tonight.”
“We must still act, even if Cornelius refuses to help us,” Dumbledore was saying. “Molly, may I depend on you and Arthur?”
“Of course,” Mrs. Weasley said immediately. She was pale, but her shoulders were set. “Fudge is the reason Arthur’s never gone any farther than Misuse of Muggle Artifacts. He thinks Arthur’s hobby shows a weakness for Muggles that shouldn’t be encouraged.”
“I thank you both. But Arthur must be discreet. One open rebel in the Ministry is enough.” Dumbledore looked at Crouch. “Thank you for your support, Bartemius, but was it necessary to be so very antagonistic to Cornelius?”
Crouch sighed. “Perhaps I was a little harsh with him,” he said. “But I have some strong feelings on this subject, Dumbledore. And to see him there, concocting any excuse, any flimsy bulwark against the possibility of the... of the return of He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named...” He stared at the door through which Fudge had fled. “I can only do my duty,” he said finally. “And my duty is to my people, not a power-hungry Minister. I’m with you, Dumbledore, every step of the way. And Cornelius may hate me for this, but he won’t dare try to tear me down. I know where too many bodies are buried for that.”
Dumbledore nodded, then turned to Bill. “Will you go to your father for me?” he said. “Tell him what has passed, and ask for his help?”
“Of course, sir.” Bill stood up. “We’re all with you,” he said. “Dad and Mum, me, Charlie and Tonks, even Percy, I think.”
“If he knows what’s good for him,” muttered Crouch, making Bill grin. The eldest Weasley kissed his mother, nodded to the other adults in the room, rubbed Ron’s head and pulled a hank of Ginny’s hair, and hurried out the door.
“You have my support, for what that’s worth,” said Mr. Lovegood. “I’ve just had an excellent article come in about Fudge; it seems he’s up to his old tricks with the goblins...”
“Could we discuss that tomorrow, perhaps, Gerald?” Dumbledore asked, a small semblance of his usual twinkle suddenly appearing in his eyes. “I would, naturally, never ask you to print anything but the truth, but there may well be some truths over the next few months that will not appear in the Daily Prophet.”
“Of course. Ten o’clock?”
“Ten it is.” Dumbledore turned to the Longbottoms. “I am sorry you have had so little peace,” he said. “If I have your help, this war may be shorter than the last.”
“I certainly hope so,” said Mrs. Longbottom. “You didn’t have to ask, Dumbledore. You know we’re with you.”
“If only so no one else ever has to deal with twelve missing years of their lives,” Mr. Longbottom added.
Quietly, Harry drummed his fingers against the frame of his bed, a quick rolled series of four, then a tap all together. Ron took up the beat moments later. Ginny tapped her foot in the same rhythm, then Draco and Luna took it up, squeezing each other’s hands in time. Hermione’s fingers drummed on her thigh, Neville’s hand patted his bedclothes, Meghan’s fingers moved on the back of her other hand.
Dumbledore turned to look at the Pack-parents.
Moony met the Headmaster’s eyes. “How could we not?” he asked simply.
The Pride-bond wavered into life. Harry let his feelings move out over it, give a rough picture of what he felt and what he wanted, and waited. In less than a breath’s time, the answers returned to him.
Yes. Yes. We are with you. Lead, and we will follow.
Blinking away the afterimages of the affirmation, Harry slid his legs out from under the covers. “Harry, is there something you need?” Dumbledore asked, looking at him in concern.
“Something I need to do, sir.” Harry stepped out into the aisle and faced his Headmaster. He could hear, could feel, the Pride assembling behind him, Ron and Ginny and Luna and Neville at his left shoulder, Hermione and Draco and Meghan at his right.
They were all there. It was time.
Reaching into his pocket, Harry took out his wand, then pulled his robes tight over his right hip and drew the silver dagger he’d once used to destroy a memory of Voldemort. Suddenly realizing he couldn’t do what he wanted by himself, he turned to the left, hoping he could ask Ron to do it for him.
Without a word, Ginny took his hands in hers and arranged dagger and wand just the way he wanted. She must have picked it up from the link... funny, I didn’t think I was broadcasting that much. “Thanks,” Harry mouthed to her, then turned back to Dumbledore and lifted his hands to chest level.
The dagger and the wand lay across them, dagger on his left palm, wand on his right, hilt and grip both facing the Headmaster.
Dumbledore laid his hands across Harry’s and met his eyes. Are you sure? the older wizard asked silently. Are you truly sure?
Harry gave the question to the Pride-bond. We are sure, answered eight voices together. We are all sure.
Dumbledore closed his eyes for a long moment, then opened them, brighter than they had been. “I thank you,” he said quietly. “May the gift never be needed, but it is appreciated.”
The bond fractured and slid away. Harry concentrated on staying upright long enough to put dagger and wand away, then moved quickly back to his bed. Tiredness was washing over him now in large, foamy waves, and his ability to care had deteriorated to the point that it didn’t bother him that most of the adults in the room were in a huddle in its center, talking quietly and urgently together.
“Mr. Potter,” said Crouch, coming to stand beside him. In his hands he held a sack, which jingled – the sack Fudge had given him, Harry recalled, with orders to give it to –
To me. What is it?
“The Tournament purse,” said Crouch, setting it down on the nightstand. “One thousand Galleons.”
“I don’t want it,” Harry said. “I didn’t win.”
“You did. Perhaps not quite the way it was intended, but you faced... you faced He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named and returned alive. That makes you a winner in most people’s opinions.”
“The ones who believe me,” Harry muttered.
“Those may be more than you think,” Crouch countered. “And there is a way you could change people’s minds quickly.”
Harry looked up.
“If He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named were seen in public,” Crouch said casually. “Ideally, by Cornelius Fudge himself, or if not by him, by enough people that hallucinations or tricks cannot be claimed. You realize, of course, that this secrecy, this denial by the administration, is perfect for him. He can build a large power base, set spies and flunkies into positions of power, so that by the time the government removes its blinkers, it is already too late. The sooner he is seen, the better for you, and for everyone who loves order and peace.”
“I can’t make him come out,” Harry said inanely.
“Can’t you?” Crouch shook his head. “Never mind, Potter, I’ll take it up with Dumbledore. Don’t worry about it. Get some rest.”
Harry stared at the man’s back as he walked away.
“What was that?” asked Hermione from the next bed over. “What was he telling you?”
“Nothing important. Just...” Harry yawned hugely. “Never mind,” he said when he could speak again. “It doesn’t matter.”
Madam Pomfrey, making the rounds of the room, got to Harry at this moment. “Here, Potter,” she said, handing him a corked flask. “Drink this when you get to where you’re going. It’s Dreamless Sleep, you’ll need it.”
“But I’m not going anywhere.”
“Aren’t you?” Madam Pomfrey moved aside to make room for Danger.
“Harry, Dumbledore thinks you should go... well, he called it the Heart of Hogwarts,” Danger said, shrugging. “Whatever it is, he wants you there for tonight. We can come with you too, if you’ll let us, and as many of the Pride as want to.”
“I think we all will,” said Hermione. “Let me check.” She got up and went across the room to Ron’s bed.
“You can come,” Harry said, watching Hermione moving through the Pride with quiet efficiency. “If you want. It’s where we den, when we’re here. You saw us come out when Draco almost died last year, with the globe.”
“I thought it might be that.” Danger had her hand near his leg, not touching but offering touch. “We can stick our fingers in our ears and hum while you say the password.”
“No, you can know it.” Harry found a little smile somewhere among his ever-increasing yawns. “I think you’ll think it’s funny.”
“Good luck,” Dumbledore’s voice rang out clearly over the hushed babble in the infirmary. Harry looked up in time to see Snape striding out the door.
“Good luck?” he repeated. “Good luck with what?”
“Oh, come on now,” said Danger. “Use those brains, Harry James.”
Harry only had to think for a moment, even tired as he was. “He’s a spy,” he breathed. “He’s going to spy on the Death Eaters...”
“Or so we believe,” Danger said, her tone light. “So he wants us to believe.”
Hermione hurried back across the aisle. “Everyone’s in,” she said. “I think we should go now.”
“Now sounds good.” Harry let Danger help him up, and guided her across the room to the fireplace. “Stealth mode,” he murmured, then waved at Draco, reminding him to lead the other Pack-parents to the opening which they now wouldn’t be able to see until they were in it. “Thank you, Rowena.”
Danger looked impressed as the stone panel moved smoothly aside. “It seems Salazar came by a love of secret passages honestly,” she said. “You first, or me?”
“It doesn’t matter. It comes out in a library. A section of the bookshelf swings out.” Harry felt the flask of potion nearly slip from his hand and rescued it just in time. “I’d better go,” he said. “Before I fall asleep here.”
The last thing he heard from the hospital wing was Padfoot’s voice. “What do you mean, over by the fireplace? There isn’t anything over by the – oh.”
Despite everything that had happened over the past few hours, Harry Potter entered the Hogwarts Den with a smile on his face.
Well, I do believe that it is here I shall break. The next chapter will be the second-to-last chapter of "Dealing with Danger," and when it is finished, I shall take some time to work on my side stories. After that, we shall launch into the next installment of the Dangerverse, "Facing Danger." This story will be more different from canon than my other stories have been.
Why will it differ from canon? Well, I feel that with a strong family behind him, and some much-needed information from Dumbledore, Harry will not do some of the things he did in year five which made that year such a disaster. (Remember, my premise is ‘the bad guys don’t change unless they have to.’) Also, I want more exciting things to happen in year six, rather than "Harry learns in dribs and drabs about Tom Riddle’s early life while Draco Malfoy tries ineptly to kill Dumbledore." Note that I’m not saying Dumbledore won’t die...
Yes, I do love torturing you. Just so we have that straight.