The Heart of Gryffindor
by SJR0301
Part III - Chapter Twenty-Six
Music was my preoccupation all through the long hot drowsy summer that preceded my seventh year. Almost daily, I wound down the lane to Geoffrey's house and there he and Ian and I would play. They had dreams of having a band as Muggles do, recording music and touring the world. There were times I found their dreams infectious, as more and more over the past two years, I had grown disillusioned with the wizarding world and its complacent superiority. Perhaps it had to do with my rejection of Narcissus Malfoy and all his pure-blood snobbery, which made me feel as though we were stuck in some unreal black hole in time where those that were inside could never escape, so great was the power of its pull. I could not see myself joining a similar wizarding band like the Weird Sisters either. They and all the other wizard singers on the Worldwide Wizarding Network seemed trapped in time in a different way, their music being a poor imitation of Muggle sounds from decades past. I wanted more, but had no real vision that shaped itself in images substantial, only ghostly intimations that teased my heart and ear during the long days and quiet nights.
Lily and James tagged along once or twice, but they soon grew bored with being on the sidelines. James is one of those active people who can rarely abide just sitting still. It's why he doesn't care for reading as a pastime, even though he is undeniably clever. Lily would listen to me play for hours on end when I played alone, but she complained that the other two never kept their instruments in tune quite well enough. That's true enough in its own way; unfortunately, Muggle instruments do lack the advantage of being charmed to stay in tune. But for someone who really loves music, that minor inconvenience is just that. I would usually take the time to help Ian tune his guitar before we practiced. Geoffrey, on the other hand, is very possessive of his bass and would not let me come near it. I think he suspected I would like to have one of my own and he wasn't far off at that. The truth is I'll play any instrument I can get my hands on. I'm most fond of the piano, but you can't easily transport one without anyone noticing, so I mostly stick with the flute, especially during the school year when I'm at Hogwarts. But that summer, what I really wanted was an electric guitar. An old-fashioned Muggle one which could be made to make sounds that no magic instrument ever would. Feedback and strange off-key notes, they were what I wanted then as they reflected my desire for some kind of revolution.
I was so preoccupied that summer that I barely noticed how worried and tired Dad seemed until the night before we took the train back to school. Mum had us all packed and we had eaten a huge dinner that Mum and Nana and Aunt Hermione had cooked. We ate out in our garden and Lily and James entertained everyone with imitations of all the teachers. Lily is a particularly accurate mimic and her imitations of Professor Trelawney and Professor McGonagall had everyone laughing. She borrowed Dad's glasses for the former, but they didn't magnify her eyes the way Professor Trelawney’s did hers. She looked eerily like Dad with a long wig on and the oddest and funniest bit was when she pretended to prophesy doom just as the old loon does.
She floated toward me, her slender form seeming too frail to possess the considerable strength I knew it did, and laid her long, lovely hands on my head before taking my hands in her own and pretending to read the lines there. "Oh, dear," she murmured dramatically, "oh no, I can't say it." Uncle Ron and James were in stitches as she peered at my hands and said, "Oh, dear boy, such a pity. You are doomed to a love unrequited and to great danger and early death!"
James roared and Edward choked on his pumpkin juice and spit it out. He had only had Trelawney for one year as he was going into his fourth, but he'd had enough of a taste of her antics to know how cruelly accurate Lily's mimicry was. As for me, I didn't mind the mockery, at least not until James stuck his oar in it and said, "Don't worry, Sirius. Your love will never go unrequited if the gossip of the girls at Hogwarts is true."
"Don't be such a git," I told him lazily. "You're the one who can't walk to the breakfast table without fending off half a dozen requests for a date. Me, I'm stuck with the girls who don't belong to the Narcissus Malfoy fan club, and that's precious few let me tell you."
"I don't," Vicky interjected, "and neither does Bryony."
"Well, yeah," I answered, "but I'm quite sure Uncle Bill would flay me if I ever even looked at you and in any case you're my cousin. It would be almost as bad as dating my sister."
Lily let go of my hands abruptly and glared at me. "So you think dating me would be awful, do you? Am I not pretty enough, or smart enough?"
This took me by surprise, as I would have thought she understood exactly what I meant. "Silly, Lily," I replied, using the pet name I had called her when we were little. I was way too full of food and too pleasantly happy to register the odd ripple of reaction that went through everyone then. "I should marry you in an instant if you weren't my sister, so stop talking nonsense." I reached out and took Dad's glasses off her elegant little nose and was surprised to see some shadow in her usually merry green eyes. It was nothing though to the fatigue and sadness in Dad's eyes, though, when I handed them back to him.
When everyone left, I hung back and caught Dad on the way back in. The last light of the sun glowed over his face and made strange silhouettes of the tall trees that lined the edges of the property. I had a strange fancy that Dad was some kind of spirit or angel in disguise as the peculiar fall of the light against the growing dark painted the illusion that he was crowned with an aura of pale fire. I blinked to clear my vision and asked, "Are you quite all right, Dad? You look awfully tired and worried."
His eyes narrowed and I thought he was so tired that he had to squint a bit to focus. The fatigue vanished then and he said, "Things have been a bit messy at work lately."
"Drowning in parchment, then?" I asked. I could not help wondering what could be so difficult, and it occurred to me that I really had not the slightest idea of what exactly Dad really did.
His mouth twitched in a rueful grimace that was not quite a smile. "Oh, yeah. We always have more forms to fill out than you'd believe, considering." His gaze on me went somber and he added, in such a tone of affection that the musician in me longed to capture the notes, "I hope, Sirius, you end up with a happier job than I did. One that suits the kindness of your nature."
I looked at him in surprise, as I don't think of myself as being especially kind: that honor goes to Lily in my opinion. I decided not to bother him just then with my unorthodox career interests. It seemed unfair to voice my wishes just at a moment when I realized that the work he was doing was not necessarily his occupation of choice.
***
A faint, fine drizzle had commenced the next morning, and even though Harry was inside in the great Muggle security building, the atmosphere was oppressive, dragging at his spirits and teasing his imagination with strange forebodings. He knew perfectly well that these feelings had to do with the recent rash of murders he was investigating and nothing to do with his children's departure, yet in his imagination, every mile the train traveled took them further and further out of his reach and further and further away from safety.
His unease could be forgiven he supposed as every one of the three victims assassinated in the last three weeks had borne the mark of the Anglo Aryan Alliance. For years, the Alliance had confined most of its activities to the Continent and Harry had rested in the knowledge that its founder was in prison. Three weeks ago, Hayden had escaped and the murders had begun.
The first had been one of the Prime Minister's chief finance advisors. There was some debate in the inner circles that he had been chosen as a warning to frighten the Prime Minister. However, the Service had agreed with the Prime Minister not to publicize the probable culprits and the news had merely stated that the Prime Minister's man had died unexpectedly in his sleep.
The second victim seemed almost like a random event, a copycat killing even, except that the first one had never been publicized. The body was identical to the first in that there was no apparent cause of death and the Alliance brand with the three As crossed by a sword was stamped right on the victim’s forehead. It was a puzzle why Hayden should have chosen to murder the librarian at the Bolivian, Oxford University's great library.
The third victim had struck close to home and everyone who worked the case had been in a fury of rage when the body was discovered. Scotland Yard had been called to the scene first as the local police had thought they might have a serial killer on their hands. The Yard detectives had run the image of the brand and the fingerprints of the unidentified victim through their computer and had contacted the Service and Special Branch immediately.
Harry had been one of those sent to the scene and the images still haunted him. The body had been found in an alley only a few blocks from Security headquarters at the back entrance to a perfectly respectable pub in which Harry had shared a pint or two with his friends from time to time. It was a narrow, crooked street, with crumbling cobbles that had never been repaired. In the misty dark, the light of the sodium light that hung over the pub’s back door had haloed the victim’s face. There, with her long giraffe-like limbs splayed out in a final sprawl, and her brown eyes open in perpetual astonishment, lay Zoë Beauchamp. The Alliance brand had been cut or burned dead center on her forehead and they all knew that there had been no mistake on this one. Hayden had begun his revenge and they were all at risk.
Every face at the conference table was grim. Bronzstein, Zoë’s long-time partner, looked almost dazed. Even he, however, snapped to attention when K, the agency head walked in and took the seat at the head of the table. His real name was Clive Locherman and he had only taken the top spot a few months ago. There had been some grumbling within the Service as most of the veterans felt that honor ought to have gone to Bentley, the deputy head.
Locherman was young for the appointment, in his late forties, and it was known that he was a political appointee, meant to appease party interests in the Parliament and the Home Office. Such appointments were not uncommon, of course, but in most cases, the appointees had more direct Security and counter-terrorist experience than Locherman did.
His face was just as grave as anyone else's there and his normally unrevealing brown eyes darted about the room. He seemed to be gauging the others' reaction; but Harry had the feeling that he was feeling distinctly unsafe.
“I realize Ms. Beauchamp’s death is a tragedy that hits close to home, ” Locherman said, “but it’s not at all clear that she was targeted individually. After all, the librarian at the Bolivian had no known connection to the Alliance at all. She could be a random victim.”
“Not likely,” Harry said. “Hayden got out of goal, three weeks ago and there have been three Alliance murders in those three weeks.”
Locherman shifted uneasily and looked annoyed. “The others may think you’re a hot shot, Potter,” he said tensely, “but I still don’t see the proof of it.”
Harry could feel his temper rise and was hard pressed to keep a bland expression on his face. Deliberately, he breathed in and then said as calmly as possible, “Zoë Beauchamp was on the team that stopped the Alliance’s operation in York sixteen years ago. It’s not an accident. Hayden is letting us know that he can strike anyone and anywhere he likes.”
“That doesn’t explain the librarian,” Locherman replied.
“That’ll bear looking into,” Bentley responded. “But I agree with Harry about the attack on Zoë. Hayden had an inside man in our camp that year. I’d bet he knew exactly who Zoë was. I think we all ought to take care, especially Harry and Johnny, since they brought him in and got him goaled for six years.”
Harry gave Bentley a quick glance of gratitude for his support. He also wondered how Locherman would deal with things if Hayden struck again. Not well, he feared.
Harry felt right at home as soon as he entered the hushed precincts of the Bodliean library. Both its medieval architecture and its air, which was redolent with the scent of very old books, reminded him of Hogwarts. Its librarian and its services were anything but medieval, however. He had gone with Carter to investigate the second murder and to find any link, however, slight to Hayden and the Alliance. The current librarian, an excessively thin man of indeterminate age with enormous glasses, insisted that Judy, the victim, was totally uninterested in politics with the exception of an affection for animal rights’ groups, and thought she might never even have heard of Hayden, even though he had been a well-known actor. It didn’t take long though to find out what might have interested Hayden. The cadaverous man’s wispy eyebrows twitched in puzzlement as he called up Judy’s log of most recent books and manuscripts searched for.
“She must have been doing research assistance for a student’s thesis,” the librarian said.
“What makes you say that?” Johnny asked quickly.
“Well, she’s gone for all this stuff about King Arthur and the Dark Ages,” he answered. “That’s not her area of interest at all… Or wasn’t.”
“Do you mind giving us the list of everything on that topic she looked up?” Harry asked. “And could we get a look at those books?”
The librarian bristled. “Some of those are very rare manuscripts and you have to have academic credentials to look at them.”
“We want to catch her murderer,” Harry replied.
The librarian’s thin shoulders hunched and his face fell. “She was quite nice to me, you know,” he said softly. “She didn’t mind me being ugly.” He squared his shoulders suddenly and said, “Come, I’ll show you.”
They followed him to a room full of glass cases. The cases reminded him of the British Museum as they held many old manuscripts, some with very fine illustrations. When they arrived at the case the librarian sought, he paled and then looked utterly furious. “They’re gone!” he said. “Every one of them! Every manuscript that mentions Arthur and his sword is gone!”
It took some doing to soothe the librarian and to persuade him that they would immediately investigate the apparent theft. It was harder to persuade him not to report the theft to anyone else. But Harry and Johnny agreed that the fewer who knew of the discovery, the better.
Locherman’s reaction was most unfortunate.
“What makes you think Hayden would bother with a bunch of medieval manuscripts?” he asked.
“He’s obsessed with King Arthur,” Harry answered.
“Rubbish,” Locherman said. “This is a sophisticated terrorist organization. They’re not interested in medieval swords. Now if you’d told me they were after the means to make a nuclear device, then I’d believe you.”
“They can find that on the Internet any day,” Johnny said gloomily.
“My point exactly,” Locherman said. “I told you. The second one was random, probably they all were.”
Harry shook his head and exchanged a silent look of commiseration with Johnny. They would have to tiptoe around Locherman to investigate this business properly, and that would be a nuisance. Worse, it would likely give Hayden a chance to dig in and prepare for another strike, against whom or what, they could not predict.
*****
The train ride to Hogwarts is usually quite uneventful. This time, it was marred by Narcissus Malfoy’s immediate challenge to my authority as Head boy. Being chosen as Head boy is a honor, I suppose, that many students would really crave. In Malfoy’s case, I would guess he craved the power of the position. He might have accepted another, but my appointment was always certain to anger him, as his hatred of me had never relented from our very first year: not that I had ever done anything to change it. To me, he radiated an air of wildness that no other student did. There was something quite off about him and I knew him to be far advanced in evil and the dark arts.
We had boarded the train and I had grabbed a compartment with Bryony and Vicky and then proceeded to the front where the prefects were gathered. Before I got three words out of my mouth, one of the third years came flying into the compartment weeping loudly.
“Snooky’s dead,” she wailed.
To be honest, nearly everyone laughed a little, although the giggles and chuckles were quickly suppressed when I glared at them and said, “It’s not funny. What happened?” I asked.
Doris Greengrass opened her light blue eyes and ungracefully swiped a hand over her teary face. “Someone’s killed him, that’s what,” she answered.
A couple of the prefects - I am ashamed to say they were our new fifth year Slytherin prefects - smirked and made the universal sign for indicating a person is quite dotty. For myself, I was quite sure she wasn’t at all.
“How do you know?” I asked. “Isn’t Snooky quite old?”
Snooky is a very elderly cat, one of the fattest I’ve ever seen, and yet Doris had dragged him to Hogwarts every year. I couldn’t blame her as I had been hard put not to drag Sasha with me my first year.
“He didn’t die because he’s old,” she answered. “His neck is broken.”
Vincent Veasey snorted. “Probably he tried to jump off the seat and broke his neck because he’s so fat and old.”
“He did not!” Doris said. She stared at me beadily and demanded, “Well? You’re Head boy. Aren’t you going to do anything about it?”
“Of course,” I answered calmly. “I’ll come with you and we’ll put Snooky in a container so he can be comfortable and I shall speak to Professor Dumbledore first thing when we arrive. If anyone did harm Snooky, we’ll find out.”
I was sure I knew who had already. The question was how I would prove it had been Malfoy.
“Do you really believe the cat was murdered?” Matilda Bones asked. Her eyes were the same blue as Bryony’s cats and just as curious. I knew the Ravenclaw girl who had been appointed Head girl, but not well. She was in several of my classes and I knew my Dad knew hers from work somehow.
“Yeah,” I said briefly as I stood before the opening to Professor Dumbledore’s office carrying the wicker basket in which the dead cat lay. The basket was incredibly heavy. It didn’t seem possible that a cat could have been that heavy.
“It was awfully fat,” Matilda observed. “Veasey may be a creep, but he’s not necessarily wrong.”
Professor Dumbledore asked the same thing. Despite his age, the Headmaster’s light blue eyes were as serene and keen as Dad’s when he knew things he shouldn’t.
“Yes,” I insisted. “This isn’t the first student’s pet that’s died without a proper explanation.”
“Really?” Matilda asked. “This is only the first day of school. How can that be?”
Professor Dumbledore looked curiously at me and then up at the ceiling as though he were puzzling to remember something.
“Bingley’s toad,” I answered, “and Parsons’ owl. The toad was all slashed up and the owl had its wing torn off.”
“That was last year,” Matilda pointed out, quite reasonably. “And it’s far more likely that someone’s cat killed the toad and that something from the Forest got the bird. There’s not an iota of evidence that anyone killed them or that they have anything to do with Snooky.” She could not suppress the tiniest grin, I suppose due to the poor cat’s silly name and comical appearance. A tiny dimple winked in her right cheek and then disappeared as she looked severely at me waiting for some explanation.
“Snooky did not break his own neck,” I insisted.
“Whom do you suspect, then?” Professor Dumbledore inquired.
I hesitated as Professor Dumbledore was perfectly aware of the bad blood between Malfoy, and me but I stiffened my spine and said quickly, “Narcissus Malfoy.”
The Headmaster did not look surprised at all. His expression gave nothing away though as he said, “Do you have any evidence? Did anyone see him? Did he, for instance, have cat hairs on his clothing?”
I could have kicked myself then, as I realized Malfoy would have changed his clothes and whatever he had been wearing would already be in the laundry being cleaned by the zealous ministrations of the Hogwarts house-elves.
“I have no proof, sir,” I said stiffly, feeling like a fool. I nerved myself up to face the light blue eyes and said stubbornly, “but I know it’s him just the same. He likes to torture animals. I’ve seen him do it. I’ve never seen him actually kill one, but….all the same, I’m sure it’s him.”
Professor Dumbledore looked suddenly quite weary. “Well, we will keep watch then,” he said. “But since we have no proof at all, only your suppositions, Mr. Potter, there is nothing to be done at the moment.”
When we left, I could not help feeling disappointed. I had always believed Professor Dumbledore knew everything and was perfectly wise. Certainly that’s what my Mum and Dad always seemed to think.
As we descended the stairs to the Great Hall for the feast, Matilda giggled suddenly, a very infectious giggle. “I can’t believe you think Mr. Beautiful killed poor Doris’ cat.”
“Mr. Beautiful?” I asked in tones of purest loathing. “You must be joking!”
“Most of the girls thinks he’s quite stunning, you know,” she answered. “The blond hair and he’s just a bit wicked.”
“He’s not just a bit wicked,” I said vehemently, “As you’ll find out now you’re Head girl. He’s downright evil and he’s behind most of the trouble that ever happens here at school.”
“You make him sound like some Muggle gang leader,” she said thoughtfully. Her cat’s eyes were more curious than ever and her own blond hair, which was more like the color of champagne than Malfoy’s pale blond, seemed to lift slightly, like a cat’s fur when it comes too near an electric charge.
“Oh, he is,” I answered. “Mr. Beautiful?” I repeated. “God, you girls can be such idiots at times.”
She laughed again, only this time it was not a giggle; it was a melodious sound yet full of mischief. “You should hear what they call you, Sirius Potter.”
I stared at her in outrage and said, “Please don’t tell me. It’ll be something awful, like Mr. Know-it-all. I think I prefer a happy ignorance, thank you.”
“Well, we all know how smart you are,” she answered. Her eyes were still gleaming with amusement. “Come to think of it, we all think it’s a puzzle that you weren’t sorted into Ravenclaw. I heard Professor Flitwick mumbling about it once last year. He said he thought the Hat was going senile, putting you in Slytherin.”
I couldn’t help feeling rather chuffed at the implied compliment. Matilda was known to be the brainiest girl in our year, although her fine good looks saved her from some of the teasing and jealousy she might otherwise have drawn. In fact, now that I had got to know her a bit better, I could see why she was quite popular. There was no other word to describe it, for somehow, even in her school uniform, Matilda Bones was cool.
We separated as we entered the Great Hall and thankfully, she was the one to volunteer to talk further with Doris. I can deal okay with Lily and with girls like Vicky and Bryony, who are clever and brave and like to act as though I’m their inferior. But weepy girls make me uneasy.
I sat at the other end of our table from Narcissus Malfoy. The look he threw me informed me quite well that my guess had been accurate. His pale grey eyes were so knowing and so full of malice. “It’ll be you, one day,” he mouthed.
I glared back at him so ferociously that he would have dropped dead that instant if looks could truly kill. I have to say, as unfortunate as it may be, since the day I had caught him hurting Lily, my dislike for him had hardened into sheer hatred.
“If all the food on this table weren’t already dead,” Vicky said in my ear, “you’d have killed it all over again with that look, Sirius.”
“It’s just Malfoy,” I replied. “He really gets to me, you know.”
“You’ll give yourself ulcers,” Bryony said judiciously as she speared an asparagus. Her clear green eyes considered Malfoy and me, and she said coolly, “He did Greengrass’ cat, didn’t he?”
“Yeah,” I answered. “How’d you guess? I couldn’t even convince Professor Dumbledore as I hadn’t a shred of proof.”
“I caught him trying to catch Ramses,” she said. “I expect he’d have tried the same with him. It’d give him a kick to hurt my cat. I’m a Mudblood, after all.” Her tone was sarcastic and hard as she bit into her vegetable.
“I still don’t get why you gave a Siamese cat an Egyptian name,” I said.
“It just sounded regal,” she answered. Her green eyes as they watched Malfoy were rather cat-like, too. I could not help thinking that they were more like a cat who was hunting, though, than one who was merely curious.
“Did you notice,” Vicky interrupted, “that there’s an empty seat at the Head table tonight?”
I looked up just in time to catch Professor Dumbledore’s blue eyes watching me. He smiled minutely and moved on to another person, Malfoy, where they rested with an expression that was as inscrutable as – well – as any cat’s. I couldn’t help thinking everyone and everything reminded me of cats that evening. Some people would find meaning in it. I myself prefer to think of it as having a sort of one-track mind. In any case, when I scanned the professors, I saw that there was indeed a vacancy, the one that was most expectable. No new face was there to take up the unpopular position of the teacher of Defense of the Dark Arts. I wondered if the teacher had ducked out in fright after thinking about it. It’s said that there hasn’t been a teacher that lasted more than one year in that position in something like thirty-four years. Shrugging, I turned my attention to the roast chicken and potatoes as my stomach reminded loudly that I was really very hungry.
In the morning, Professor Snape handed me the students’ schedules for distribution. “I heard you accused Malfoy of killing that Gryffindor girl’s cat,” he commented. His sallow, bony face looked unaccountably tired, though his black eyes were as hard to read as ever.
“Yes,” I answered. “He did it. You know he’s capable of it. There’s something wrong with him, Professor. You must know that by now.”
His black eyes narrowed and he asked, “What, exactly, do you mean that there’s something wrong with him? Other than the fact that you dislike him?”
“I don’t dislike him,” I answered coolly. “I hate him. And what’s wrong with him is that he’s a nutter, sir. And I don’t mean that he’s dotty or anything. He knows what he’s doing. I mean he’s mentally sick, warped. He likes to torture animals and weaker people.”
Snape’s eyes narrowed slightly and a peculiar expression flickered through them and was gone again before I could identify it.
“If that’s the case, Sirius,” he said slowly, “then you are the last person who ought to be accusing him or dealing with him. Everyone here knows quite well the enmity between you. They will all think that your accusations are part of your ongoing feud.”
“That, sir, is why I have told Professor Dumbledore and you,” I replied. “You will do something?”
Snape rubbed a bony finger on his chin absently. “I’ll keep an eye on him,” he conceded. “You must allow, however, that he comes from somewhat difficult circumstances. His parents are dead, you know.”
“Well, being an orphan doesn’t justify murdering other students’ pets,” I snapped. “And it’s not like he’s wanting for anything. His grandparents keep him well spoiled as far as I can see.”
“The Parkinson’s give him a home,” Snape said, “but it’s not what he would have if he were with his own parents.”
I clutched the schedules and said, “Well, I’m lucky, I suppose, in my family, sir. But whatever his circumstances are, sir, I’m telling you, he’s barking mad and it’s getting worse.”
I started out of the common room, but stopped as a thought hit me. “We do have a Defense instructor, don’t we?”
Snape looked quite blank and said, “I suppose he’s late turning up. He’s an unreliable sort, anyway, the old git.”
I stared back at the Professor in surprise. He was usually fairly discreet about expressing his opinion of other professors.
“You know him?” I asked.
The Professor sniffed and his expression turned sour. “Just watch your possessions when he’s around. He’s a bit of thief, and hardly an appropriate choice for a Hogwarts teacher.”
“He can’t be much worse than some we’ve had,” I said dubiously.
Snape snorted, and said, “Worse than some and not half as bad as others.” His smile was acid and full of some secret humor. “Go on, then,” he said. “The entire House will be late to class if you don’t hand out their schedules.”
I handed out schedules hastily and noted with a groan that our first class was, indeed, Defense Against the Dark Arts. I was rather curious though as to whom the old thief might be that Dumbledore had hired. It was a wonder that the class was still taught all things considered. I hoped that it wouldn’t be a waste of time again this year, as it had for every one of the previous six.
The entire class was settled and was waiting at the start of the hour, but no teacher arrived. We all looked at each other and a restless murmur washed across the room.
“It’s the jinx,” Paul Parkinson said. “This teacher’s a no show on the first day, isn’t he?”
His remark proved wrong, however, as Professor Dumbledore could be seen in the hallway talking in a low voice to Professor Snape, Professor McGonagall and another. I craned my neck to see, but all that could be seen was a dark head and the back of his body as the other teachers blocked his face. What I could see was that the new teacher was not dressed in wizard’s robes. He had on a pair of ancient jeans and a sweatshirt. An odd frisson went through me.
Professor Snape said in a quiet voice, not meant to be heard by us students, “This is one of your worst ideas yet, Professor Dumbledore. And what happened to --?”
Professor Dumbledore cut him off at the same time as Professor McGonagall. “I’ll explain later, Severus. Right now, the students are waiting for the Professor as your students await you.” Professor Snape swept off without another word. Perhaps it was his displeasure that affected the students.
In any case, Malfoy would comment in that annoying drawling voice which carried easily across the room. “Look what they’ve got this time. Some Mudblood or Squib who can’t even dress in proper robes.”
A cool familiar voice responded, “I can assure you, Mr. Malfoy, that if you ever have to defend yourself from a dark wizard’s attack, the last thing you’ll care about is how he’s dressed.”
The whole class gawped and I the most of all. It was my Dad.
Malfoy flushed and his grey eyes turned nearly black, a bad sign, I knew. “How’d you know my name?” he asked rudely.
Dad stared at him with every sign of genuine dislike, though he had never met Narcissus before and said, “I knew your father and mother. I went to school with them and when it really mattered, they fought on the same side as I did. Let’s hope you turn out to be at least half the wizard your Dad was.” He swept the class with a bright green stare and said, “And just so you know, I don’t tolerate discourtesy in my class. So five points from Slytherin.”
The class was now silent and I had to say I was more than stunned. It wasn’t only that it was my Dad and not some old git of a thief. I could not remember ever seeing Dad so... well, forceful. Usually he left all that to Mum.
He tapped his wand on the board and the letters scrolled across it: Professor Harry Potter.
He turned back and said quite easily then, “Wands out, and books away, and everyone will please come to the front of the room.”
No one moved though, except me. I got up and Vicky and Bryony started to follow. The rest of the class simply stared at Dad as though he were something strange and alien. When he made a gesture with his hand, his wand hand, the others stood hastily and Lionel Wood asked quite daringly, "Don't we have to take any notes, Professor, erm, Potter, sir?"
Dad smiled a bit and said, "No. This will be a practical defense class. I understand you have had little experience in actual fighting and that's what we'll be concentrating on."
Everyone moved to the front, though most were reluctant to stand too near Dad, which was a reaction you were more likely to get in Hagrid's Care of Magical Creatures class than in Defense. With a flick of his wand, Dad vanished the desks and the entire floor of the classroom was now empty.
“Now, who can tell me the spell for disarming an opponent?” Dad asked.
One or two timid hands rose in the air, but seemingly bent on making permanent trouble, Malfoy responded, “Everyone knows that. That’s a beginner’s spell.”
Everyone stared at Malfoy and at Dad just waiting to see what his response would be. Dad turned to look at Malfoy and said quite calmly, “Very good, then, Mr. Malfoy. Since you know it, you can be the one to participate in its demonstration.” He stepped out into the empty center of the room and gestured to Malfoy to come forward.
“You, Mr. Malfoy, will aim a spell at me. Any spell, it doesn’t matter. And I will demonstrate the proper form for disarming an opponent.” He lifted and eyebrow and glanced at the rest of the class briefly. “Then the rest of you will divide into pairs and practice.”
He turned back to Malfoy and stood in the most relaxed and comfortable way as if he were in the middle of a party or just arrived for afternoon tea. Malfoy considered him and I could practically see the workings of his mind, churning and turning, like some evil machine stuck on drive. “Any spell?” he asked. “Professor, er…” At Dad’s nod he added, “How about Arvada Kedavra then?”
The whole class gasped, but Dad did not react except for a slight narrowing of his green eyes. Almost pleasantly, he replied, “I would not advise that. Try something else.”
Malfoy struck almost instantly, or tried to. But before he could complete his spell, Dad had spoken the word, “Expelliarmus.” Malfoy’s wand flew out of his hand, and Malfoy was actually propelled backwards and he stumbled landing right on his bottom.
A few chuckles were quickly smothered as Dad said, “Ah, well, that can happen on occasion. I must be out of practice.”
The class lined up eagerly in twos and pretty soon everyone was practicing the spell with the greatest enthusiasm. Dad walked about occasionally giving a few words of correction or encouragement, though he did not approach me during that first lesson. The atmosphere in the room had returned to the kind of normal cheerful noise that one might find in Professor Flitwick’s class when he left us to practice charms on our own. Only Malfoy stopped from time to time to glare at Dad in loathing.
At the end of the hour, Dad called us all in order and gave us for homework further practice of the disarming spell. As if they had suddenly recalled that they were in the presence of a celebrity and a rather disreputable one at that, the class left, keeping their eyes on Dad with varying expressions of fascination, admiration and even fear. I thought it awfully odd; but then, we had never in the previous six years had a defense lesson of that caliber.
I fiddled with my book sack to make it look like I was having trouble with the strap and waited for the others to leave before rushing up to Dad. “That was perfectly brilliant!” I said. “But how come you didn’t tell us you’d be teaching? And what about Mum? What does she think?”
Dad smiled at me, and I couldn’t help noticing that his smile was slightly forced and that up close he looked incredibly weary. His eyes had faint shadows beneath them as though he hadn’t slept at all and I saw that there was just the faintest shadow of a beard on his face and knew that he hadn’t even bothered to shave that morning.
“It was a bit unexpected,” he answered. He shoved his hand through his hair, pushing his untidy fringe off his face, so that it stood up more than usual. “Very unexpected,” he added. He summoned up another smile, this one perfectly unshadowed and full of affection and said, “You’d better go, Sirius. You’ll be late to class and Professor McGonagall won’t like it at all.”
***
Harry rubbed his eyes and wished he had time for a cup of coffee before the next class arrived. He had barely slept the previous night and was wondering whether accepting the position of defense professor here at Hogwarts had been rash and stupid. His only excuse was that he had been maneuvered into it by Locherman, of all people, and by his need to protect Dumbledore from the easy machinations of the agency head. He closed his eyes to shut out the dazzle of the bright sunshine, only in its place rose the images of the previous night’s events.
He had barely fallen asleep when a far distant ringing woke him. It had taken him a moment or two to realize that the ringing was from their often-unreliable telephone, out in the front hallway. He had padded downstairs, only mildly curious to know who was calling. Ginny had followed behind, yawning and grumbling and she had grumbled even more when the caller turned out to be Edgar Bones.
“We’ve got another one,” Bones said tersely, “and you’d better come immediately.”
“Where?”
“Number 11 Grimmauld Place,” Bones answered.
“What?” Harry asked. “Are you sure?”
“Oh, yes,” Bones answered, “And you’d better get there instantly or we’re likely to have a very unfortunate meeting with both Ministries and neither will like it at all.”
Harry dropped the phone and took the stairs back up three at a time and threw on the ancient jeans and sweatshirt he had worn after work. “I’ve got to go,” he told Ginny. “Tell your Dad he’d better run interference at the Ministry of Magic, as there’s a dead body on our doorstep at Grimmauld Place.”
“Who?” Ginny asked. “And how?”
“I dunno,” he said grimly, “but it looks like the Alliance have something to do with it, which you’re not supposed to know.”
He took a deep breath and tried to still the racing of his heart as he disapperated and apparated around the corner from Grimmauld Place. He strolled into the street and saw a number of official looking cars parked right in front of Number 11. The Muggles, he knew, would not see Number 12, which was actually between Number 11 and Number 13, because of the secrecy and Muggle repelling spells set on the house. He could not imagine who would have been there and why the Alliance should have struck in just this place.
Bones saw him and waved him over. He crossed the yellow crime scene line and noted that Bones looked as though he had never left the office. There were a couple of plainclothesmen he didn’t recognize: local police, the thought. Locherman and Carter were also there, bending over the body.
“Another random victim,” Locherman was saying. “He’s not one of ours, and I’d recognize any of the more important government men.”
Bones laid a hand on Harry’s arm in warning, but even then, Harry had to stifle an exclamation as he saw that the dead body belonged to Mundungus Fletcher. The old thief’s ginger hair had gone grey altogether and he was better dressed than Harry had ever seen him. He had been left on the stoop of Number 11, to Harry’s eyes; there was a marked difference between this death and the previous three. Those had had no marks on them but the Alliance brand. Mundungus looked as though he had fought bitterly with someone. Chunks of flesh were missing from his face and hands and his face was stuck in a peculiar rictus that might be taken for a huge laugh stopped suddenly in the middle. Like the other victims, the Alliance brand was stamped on his forehead, probably after death.
Harry scanned the stoop and the street looking for Mundungus’ wand and trying not to think about the fact that someone else he knew was dead. Had Hayden known of Mundungus’ connection to Harry? How could he? The answer presented itself uncomfortably: Lucius Malfoy and several Death Eaters had allied themselves with Hayden after Voldemort’s death. Was it possible that some of them were still in league with Hayden, even after six years of imprisonment?
Before Harry could contradict Locherman, a long emerald colored limousine slid into the street, ignoring the policemen’s signal to go elsewhere. Out of the limousine came Arthur Weasley, Professor Dumbledore and another wizard whom Harry did not know. Ginny must have reached her father first, though, as all three men were dressed in Muggle clothing.
“Move along,” Locherman said bluffly. “No one is allowed here just now.”
Harry was momentarily surprised that Locherman did not recognize his father-in-law, but then he recalled that no one had let him in on the existence of the wizard ministry within his agency. He needn’t have worried though.
“We were told that an acquaintance of ours is dead,” Professor Dumbledore answered.
Locherman noted the excellent, if conservative cut of Dumbledore’s Muggle suit, and his aura of authority must have impressed as well. “May I ask who you are?”
“I am Professor Dumbledore,” the Headmaster answered, “and the man there was one of the teachers at my school.”
“And what do you know about this?” Locherman asked, gesturing at the dead body.
“Nothing, sir,” Dumbledore answered gravely.
“Nothing?” Locherman asked. “Then how is it you knew to be here?”
“A neighbor of Mr. Fletcher’s called,” Dumbledore replied.
Harry exchanged glances with Mr. Weasley and then noticed that the third man from the Ministry of Magic was staring at him. He turned his head away, hoping that the man hadn’t recognized him.
Locherman continued to view Dumbledore with some suspicion, as his next question tread into dangerous territory.
“And what school is this, where the victim taught?”
Bones jumped in, undoubtedly to avert further questions. “Professor Dumbledore is Headmaster of a small selective public up north, sir. In fact, I went there myself.”
“Public school, you say?” Locherman replied. “You went there?”
“Yes, sir,” Bones answered. “So did Harry.”
He meant, Harry understood, to make Locherman think Hogwarts was an ordinary Muggle public school, as Locherman had no idea they were wizards, or that wizards existed at all. Harry wished that Bentley had been sent to handle this and that Locherman hadn’t insisted on coming to the scene, something the Head never did. The third man from the Ministry looked at Harry again and opened his mouth to say something. Fortunately, Professor Dumbledore cut in and said, “This is a sad day for our school. Most unfortunate. We shall start term tomorrow without one of our most important teachers.”
Locherman refocused on Dumbledore and so did the third man.
“Do you think,” he asked the Headmaster, “that any of your other teachers would have known the victim well enough to have been in his confidence? I mean, would they know if he had an interest in the Alliance?” He pointed at the Alliance mark on Mundungus’ face and Dumbledore’s face set into a kind of cold ferocity that betokened extreme unpleasantness for the wrongdoers.
“I don’t know,” Dumbledore answered, “but I shall certainly look into it.” He hesitated and added, “It seems unlikely, however. I knew Mr. Fletcher for many years, sir, and I can assure you, that whatever his sins were, he did not go along with the notions of racial purity that the Alliance spouts.”
“Do we ever truly know anyone?” Locherman asked reflectively. “Many men go about their lives appearing to be ordinary, yet they wear masks to those they know. The Alliance has been recruiting its members for many years now and many are unknown, and kept secret deliberately. I wonder, sir, what a serious investigation at your school would yield. Perhaps the victim was recruiting student to the Alliance cause. Perhaps others of your teachers are in it as well. I should like a man on the ground there, to find out.”
“And I should prefer,” Dumbledore responded instantly, “not to have policemen tramping about my school, disturbing classes and the students’ routines. I believe I can conduct a thorough but discreet investigation for you, and if I do find anything, you have my word you will know of It.”
“Sorry,” Locherman responded. His voice was smooth and unctuous and reminded Harry too well of Cornelius Fudge, when he was about to find a reason to do something awful. “I cannot delegate investigator functions to civilians, no matter how respected.” His bland gaze flicked over the assembled men and back to Mundungus’ dead body. The Head’s gaze disguised his repulsion and fear, but Harry could read it as clearly as if the man had spoken his thoughts aloud. What enraged him the most, aside from the fact that Locherman did not seem to see Mundungus as having been human, as having been deserving of life, was that Locherman’s chief concern seemed to be for his own hide. Some gleam of his anger must have showed for Locherman’s gaze hardened as it touched Harry’s and then his dark eyes flickered.
“You went to this school, Potter?” he asked.
Harry nodded curtly, not trusting himself to speak.
“And did you know the victim then?”
Harry cleared his throat of the rising bile and he said coolly, “I knew Mundungus Fletcher, yes. But I don’t believe he had any contacts with the Alliance.”
Locherman simply considered him without expression. “Even so, I want an investigation and it seems to me you would be the best person for it. You went to the school, you knew the victim. And the professor is without a teacher. I think this would be the perfect opportunity for a small undercover operation. You can go in as the victim’s replacement and do some investigating right on the ground, eh?” He did not wait for Harry’s answer, and Harry understood that he had no choice in any case. What he did not anticipate was Dumbledore’s reaction. “I think that is a most excellent solution, sir.”
He did not look at Harry either. Instead, his gaze fell upon Mundungus’ body and he stepped past the nearest plainclothesman and knelt by the body. He ignored the policeman’s protest that the scene would be disturbed. Locherman must have been impressed by the old man’s dignity, or perhaps, because Dumbledore radiated the kind of authority that a man of power recognized, he motioned the man back.
Dumbledore laid his hands on Mundungus’ cold brow and bent his head. He murmured a few words softly, too softly for Harry to hear what they were, and then said aloud, “Good-bye old friend. I think we shall meet again before long.”
He stood up then, stiffly as an old man does, and Harry moved quickly to place a hand under his elbow and provide him with support. “Your first class starts promptly at nine tomorrow,” Dumbledore said. He hesitated, and in his light blue eyes was an appeal Harry had never seen before. “Can you be there shortly before so I can go over the curriculum with you?”
Any thought of protest died. Harry nodded and only reluctantly removed his hand from Dumbledore’s elbow.
Harry watched as Dumbledore walked away from the Grimmauld Place with a quiet dignity and he wondered what he had gotten himself into.
Locherman’s voice brought him back. “So you don’t think the victim had any connection to the Alliance, eh, Potter?”
Harry said quietly, “No, I don’t.” After a moment, however, he amended that. “None that I know of, sir.”
“This victim was randomly selected, then?” Locherman inquired blandly.
Bones, once again laid a hand on Harry’s arm, and Harry, following his silent advice, did not reply.
Locherman departed then and left them to supervise the remaining crime scene investigation. When Mundungus’ body was finally removed and the other policeman left, Harry looked at Bones and Carter, and said, “What d’ you reckon?”
Bones sighed and looked at the stoop of Number 11. Harry followed his glance and the door to Number 12 appeared, pushing aside Number 11 and Number 13, though no one there in the street would have noticed. Harry hesitated, and then climbed the steps to the entrance. Before he could lift a hand, the door swung open to let him in.
He heard Carter’s exclamation of surprise, but ignored it as he stepped into the house that he still thought of as Sirius’ house. The house was silent and the air inside was stale. Harry had not been inside the house in a number of years, though he let Professor Dumbledore and the remaining members of the Order of the Phoenix use the house, as they needed. He moved on through the hallway and into the front lounge. Behind him, Bones and Carter had followed him inside, and Carter asked curiously, “What is this place?”
“It’s mine,” Harry answered curtly. “My godfather left it to me when he died.”
The reminder of Sirius’s death did nothing to raise his spirits, for although he had long since come to terms with his godfather’s death, there remained to this day a lingering sense of guilt and failure and betrayal, a bitter taste, not easily dispelled.
He drew his wand and lit the chandelier and every torch and lamp as he paced through the house. Upstairs and downstairs, they trod silently, uncertain whether anyone might be inside who did not belong or might not be trusted. The place was utterly still and Harry felt as though he were inside a crypt, so chill was the air. A shiver shuddered through him and when he returned downstairs to the kitchen, he lit a blazing fire a in the hearth and stood by it wishing vaguely that some of the heat from it would find its way into his soul.
“What was he doing here?” Carter asked abruptly. “And did the Alliance know where they were, and that this house belongs to you?”
“I don’t know,” Harry replied. They were the very questions he had been asking himself.
An uncomfortable sensation crept over him, a feeling of being watched, and he lifted a hand to stop the conversation. From a crack in the cupboard, a pair of eyes peered out, and then a snout and at last the ancient, bald head of Kreacher, the house-elf.
In a rumbling bass voice, Kreacher mused, “The Boy is back who was dead. My Mistress will not like it, her home invaded by the Phoenix again. Kreacher wonders why he is here and the one who works for Muggles. And there’s a new man here, a wizard Kreacher never saw before.”
“What is that?” Carter asked.
Harry said quietly, quelling the automatic loathing he felt upon seeing the old elf again, “Kreacher, has anyone been here, in the house lately?”
Kreacher did not bow as he once might have. Harry had freed the elf but had not, when it came down to it, had the heart to dismiss the elf from the only house he had ever known.
“Kreacher has been here,” Kreacher rumbled. “Kreacher is somebody. Perhaps the Boy thinks Kreacher is nobody. Then nobody has been here.”
The house-elf’s form was heavily stooped and his huge eyes were rheumy with age. Although Harry had freed him seventeen years before, he wore only the same loincloth he had always worn. Harry caught the elf’s eyes and said, “You are somebody Kreacher. I meant has anyone besides you been here tonight or in the last few days?”
Kreacher stared back at Harry and answered directly and with great sadness, “Kreacher is all alone here. No one is coming in many days, Lord. I am all alone, with only my Mistress’s portrait, and she speaks no longer.”
Harry shivered and unwilling pity crept through him for the loneliness and empty existence of the poor creature before him.
He nodded and felt overwhelmingly stifled, for despite the warmth of the fire, the air in the house seemed to have too little oxygen, giving it the feel of a dying planet. Desperate for fresh air, he strode to the back door and flung it open allowing the cool summer night breeze to rush in. He breathed deeply and stepped outside into the garden. Bones and Carter followed him out and again Johnny exclaimed as he took in the size of the garden, which from the front of the house, should never have been so large.
A bright crescent moon hung in the sky, and millions of stars formed a brilliant canopy above. The night air was full of the scents of flowers, old roses, jasmine, and woody herbs come into bloom. The vegetation was wildly overgrown, as no one had tended it since Harry had tried, as a means to distract himself from the crushing weight of many fears, to tame the place by old-fashioned Muggle labor. He walked through to where the marble folly stood. It was overgrown with ivy and climbing roses and among the vines, the tiny forms of fairies flitted and laughter tinkled musically.
He continued away from it to another protected place; it was carpeted with moss and underfoot, here and there, petals of moonflowers were strewn. Time, he thought, had stopped and run backwards. Or perhaps, there in that spot, time had ceased. He stood absolutely still and felt as though some great magic welled up from the very ground, breathed in the air, sang in his senses, as the memory of love washed through him in a rush, and he was possessed with joy and a desire to hurry home to his wife where he belonged. He knelt and scooped up a petal or two and crushed them in his fingers. The scent released nearly undid him, and he could have wept then, for the boy he had been and was no longer, and for all those lost, the latest of whom was no more deserving of harm than any other had been. For no one, he thought, deserved the fate that had come to Mundungus Fletcher.
“Do you believe him?” Bones asked, breaking his reverie.
“Kreacher, you mean?” Harry asked. He nodded. “Yes. He was telling the truth.”
“Then what was he doing here?” Bones asked. “Did they catch up with him here? Was he coming here to escape from them? Or was he killed elsewhere and dropped there for you to find?”
“Why for Harry especially?” Johnny asked.
Feeling that the garden sanctuary had been violated by the discussion, Harry strode back to the house.
The others followed, still talking. Harry wished they wouldn’t, but did not stop them.
“Why Harry?” Bones asked. “Harry brought Hayden in and got him jailed.”
“So did Johnny,” Harry replied. “He was equally as responsible.”
“Yes,” Bones answered. “And it may be that he will be a target next. But let’s face it, Johnny is not the Boy Who Lived.”
Harry turned and stared at Bones. “I don’t see what that has to do with it.”
Bones considered him impatiently. “Of course, you do, Harry. Hayden is afraid of you. So instead of going after you directly, he strikes at someone who is in your orbit, Zoë and Mundungus.”
“Hang on,” Harry cut in. “I haven’t seen Mundungus Fletcher in a long time. And he was never close to me like some of the other Order members were. And how would Hayden know who ‘Dung was and his connection to me?”
“I don’t know,” Bones admitted. “It’s one thing we’ll have to discover. But it can’t be an accident that Fletcher was either killed or disposed of here on your front steps.”
“Yeah,” Johnny said, “except for one thing. How would they even have seen the place? The body was next door at Number 11, not here.”
“Either they knew the location here, but couldn’t see it because of the protective spells on the house,” Harry answered, “or ‘Dung was trying to escape them and they caught him in the street out front before he could get inside to safety. It still doesn’t answer how they knew of him, though.”
“That’s not too difficult,” Bones offered. “There were several Death Eaters involved with Hayden years ago, when they tried to bring back Riddle. Some of them are still around, either in Azkaban or free. And for all we know, there may be some who were never identified as Death Eaters and who have shifted their allegiance to Hayden in the absence of any other dark wizard to lead them.”
“It seems a bit of a stretch,” Harry replied. “Hayden’s ambitions seem to have more to do with Muggles than with wizards.”
“I don’t agree,” Johnny said. “He’s after a magic sword and he wants to rule everything, wizards and Muggles alike. It’s not so different from what the Lord of Death wanted.”
Harry said slowly, “You may be right. In the end, Voldemort had an army of Muggle criminals along with his dark wizards. And he is the one who began truly large attacks on Muggles. We wouldn’t be here if he hadn’t.”
“Well, we do know one thing,” Johnny said after a moment, “Locherman has really thrown a spanner in the investigation forcing you into Fletcher’s job undercover.”
“Yeah,” Harry agreed. “And it makes no sense really. What on earth does he think I’m going to find at a school. He doesn’t even have any clue what Hogwarts is.”
“It’s simple,” Bones said. “He got rid of you, Harry. He thinks you’re a threat to him, so he shunted you off where he thinks you won’t learn anything and away from the center of the investigation. You’re the last person he wants bringing down Hayden and the Alliance.”
“How on earth could I be a threat to him?” Harry asked in astonishment.
“He sees you as his likely successor,” Johnny answered dryly.”
“Nonsense,” Harry said. “I’m way too junior and I have no interest in running the place.”
“You’re a seventeen year veteran,” Bones responded, “and you personally defeated one of the worst terrorists of all time and you were the one who brought in Hayden and stalled the Alliance for six years. And that’s not even mentioning the other things you’ve done.”
Harry shrugged uncomfortably. “You’ve got more seniority than I have, and Johnny’s done just as much.”
“The Prime Minister know who you are and asks after you personally,” Bones replied. “I expect that’s what really gets Locherman. And you’re younger than he is.”
“Yeah, well, maybe I’m just as glad to be out of the office and back at Hogwarts,” Harry said defiantly.
“Exactly what was Fletcher supposed to be teaching, anyway?” Bones asked.
Harry stared at him and felt goose bumps rise on his arms. “Defense Against the Dark Arts,” he said. “It has to be, because there wouldn’t have been any other openings.”
“Well, you ought to be qualified for that,” Bones said even more dryly yet.
Qualified to face the jinx, Harry thought, as he met the awed stares of his next class. He was, he thought, going to get awfully tired of being gawped at as if he were a Crumple-horned Snorckack.
