The Heart of Gryffindor
by SJR0301
Part II - Chapter Three
Harry had to admit he’d never have expected to be the worst student in a defense class. But here in the Muggle class, he was undoubtedly the worst. It reminded him of all the years he’d had to run from Dudley. It reminded him of all the times he hadn’t run fast enough. Even his normally sharp reflexes had deserted him. If Voldemort were to reappear to fight Harry just then, he’d certainly be killed, only not by the Curse, but by the Sword. Would it have made a difference?
He shrugged off the gloomy thoughts and tried to dodge Ron’s attack. Unfortunately, he wasn’t nearly fast enough. He ended up sitting on his behind and wishing he were anywhere else. Ron looked perfectly miserable as he extended his hand to assist Harry in getting up. “Sorry,” Ron said in a low voice. Harry shrugged and said with the faintest acerbity, “It’s just Muggle stuff, you know.” Ron would have replied, but their instructor, Worthington, called for everyone to switch to different pairs again. Naturally, he thought with resignation, it would have to be Norway.
Norway grinned at Harry and sprang at him with considerable speed for a person of his bulk. Harry waited until the last moment and then stepped aside just in time as if he were dodging a bull. Norway’s face darkened as he turned to attack again.
”Are you auditioning for the ballet?” he asked, “You don’t even fight back, do you?”
Harry skipped to the side again and ignored the provocation. There was only one sure outcome to this match and he was hoping to prolong it just far enough for Worthington to think he was actually trying. He took a swipe at Norway as he escaped and managed to shove the larger man on the back as he did. The extra push made Norway stumble and his blocky face reddened further. Moved by rage, the Sergeant attacked again, knocking Harry to the floor with a ringing blow to the head. He followed up by pouncing on Harry and pinning him down. “Right, dancing boy,” he said. “Admit you’re beat.”
But Harry was too stunned to answer. His vision darkened, and when it cleared, it seemed to split in two. He saw, felt, the huge Sergeant pinning him down; he saw the grey, cloudy light of the rainy day that filtered into the gymnasium windows; he felt the hurt in his head where it had made contact with the mat. He saw, too, a brilliant, pure light, the gleaming dark red of his mother’s hair, her smiling face, as if he were there with her at the same time.
***
Carter thought, not again, when he saw Norway knock down the kid. Worthington said with aggravation, “You’ll have to try harder than that, Potter.” But the kid made no answer, not even to Norway’s outrageous insults.
The little redhead shoved at Norway and yelled, “Get off him!” and Norway backed off with a smirk. She touched the kid’s face and then felt his pulse and looked far too panicked for what seemed to be a simple knock. It was the kid’s eyes that did it he supposed. They were open but non-responsive. Then after a moment, he reached up with one thin hand to touch the girl’s hair and said in a whisper, “Mum?”
The girl blanched and said, “It’s Ginny, you idiot,” and then the green eyes blinked and re-focused and the kid said quite irritably, “I knew that.” He sat up and held a hand to his head and said with even more irritation, “Damn, that hurt.” Then he got up using the girl for support and Carter sighed with relief.
”That hurt?” Norway said incredulously. “Is that what you’ll say if you have to tangle with a terrorist? Is that how you’ll fight with a real enemy? I wouldn’t want you for back up, I can tell you that.”
Once again, the girl and her brother looked as though they’d kill Norway and even the cool-headed Granger looked positively furious. Potter, however, looked Norway up and down and said very dryly, “In a real fight, it’s surviving that counts in my experience. If you live, you’ve won for that day. Sometimes, though sometimes, you beat your enemy anyway you can.”
Norway looked taken aback and then he replied, “I’d hate for you to survive at the cost of my life because you didn’t have the guts to fight like a man.”
Carter would have punched him then if Norway had said it to him, but all Potter said was, “There’s no question that you, unlike me, are as big and strong as a gorilla, and you, unlike me, as equally as smart as one, too.”
This time, Norway turned a lovely shade of crimson and he launched himself at the kid one more time. The kid didn’t bother dodging this time. He hauled off and punched the huge man in the face. Carter reckoned it was the force of the big man’s momentum that caused so much damage. His already bumpy nose started to bleed and he cursed viciously.
Potter, on the other hand, said regretfully, as he flexed his rapidly swelling fingers, “Now that was stupid of me.”
"Whatever, he is," MacCready said afterwards, "He's not a coward."
Austin had frowned and said, "Maybe not. But there's still something wrong with Potter. Did you see what he looked like? I mean his eyes. They were open, but he was not all there."
"You wouldn't be all there either if Norway hit you like that," Brittany replied.
"Enough," Johnny said. He nodded and said, "All right, Harry?"
"Yeah, sure," the kid answered.
But Carter had to wonder again if Austin was right. His face was grey with exhaustion and the green eyes were shadowed and had a fevered look to them.
He turned his attention to the front though as Daniels was lecturing on the Red Brigade's organization and tactics. By the time they finished the next three months, he thought, they would have some acquaintance with every terrorist organization that had ever phoned in a threat to anyone.
"Kidnappings were one of their favorite tactics," Daniels explained. "They could raise money and try to force policy changes at the same time."
Carter took notes on their use of disconnected cells to keep their membership secret and protected, their methods of communication, and the way they had been penetrated by undercover agents. He wondered idly whether any of them would ever have undercover assignments. Not Harry, he thought. Too young and too fragile. If they ever discovered him, they'd break him physically quite fast.
He glanced over to see how the kid was taking the description of some of the Brigade's nastiest tactics -- cutting off fingers and ears of the kidnapping victims and sending them as time progressed without cooperation. The kid, however, wasn't taking in any of it. His pen had drooped onto the pad. He was propping up his head with his left hand, and the mane of black hair, which flopped over his face, looked wilder than ever. And he appeared to be almost asleep. Maybe Austin was right, after all.
***
The giant was beating on the drum and Harry could hear the march of the dark army. Thump, doom, boom. They were coming for him.
"Harry!" Ron's voice cried. "Are you in there?"
Thump, thump. He woke up and saw that the sun was leaking into the window in a half-hearted fashion. The thumping was Ron knocking on the door and it was Saturday.
"I'm sleeping," he said grumpily. "Go away. It's Saturday."
"We have class," Ron bellowed.
Harry groaned and dragged himself out of bed. He opened the door and stuck his head out. Down the hallway, Fletcher yelled for them to shut up and Ron answered back, "Go boil yourself."
"You look awful," Ron observed as he sloped into the room.
Harry squinted at him in annoyance and said, "You look awful, too, before you wash and dress."
Ron gave him a look but said only, "We've defense class this morning. You don't want to be late."
"Maybe I'll skive off," Harry said.
"I don't think that's a good idea," Ron answered. "And besides, we're learning weapons today, not unarmed combat."
Harry didn't think he wanted to learn to use Muggle weapons anymore than he wanted to learn hand-to-hand combat. But at least he wouldn't be somebody's punching bag for the day. Too bad, he thought yawning; he hadn't gotten Dudley to teach him more about boxing.
Ron gave him a measuring look, one of those ones that said he was wary of Harry's likely annoyance, and then thrust a glass vial at him.
"Here," he said, "You need to take that, Ginny said.”
"Ginny said?" Harry asked. "Since when do I have to do whatever Ginny says?"
Ron snorted just a little. "Get used to it, mate. And besides, it won't just be her you'll have to deal with. Mum says you have to, and you know her."
Harry eyed the potion with annoyance. "I'm perfectly fine. You don't have to keep trying to dose me every time I sneeze or wheeze or look sad."
"Don't be a perfect git," Ron said. "Do you want to be weak and tired and sickly forever? It's just Revitalizing Potion. It'll help you get some weight and strength back is all."
"And if I don't feel like taking it?" Harry asked, just to be contrary.
"Mum'll send you a Howler," Ron said calmly.
"In front of all the Muggles?" Harry said incredulously. "Not likely."
"It'd be better than if she came in person," Ron retorted. "And you know she will, too."
Thought of Mrs. Weasley charging into the Compound and directing one of her famous tantrums at him was enough to make Harry cringe. He shrugged and tossed down the potion as if it had been his intention all along. He entertained himself with the vision of Mrs. Weasley in her most tigerish mode shooting spells at Norway's large face on the way to the shooting range.
In fact, the range was indoors and was a highly sophisticated practice room. Each student was directed into a cubby, which was faced on either side with bulletproof glass for safety. They were given earplugs to protect their hearing from the sounds of the explosion. But before they were allowed to practice, Worthington made them load and unload their handguns, stand in the preferred stance for shooting (supporting the shooting hand with the other to stabilize the weapon, and to latch and unlatch the safety.
Quite a few of the others had clearly had practice before. Austin, the former policeman and Norway, the former army sergeant, handled their weapons with the casual sureness of the expert. Ron looked at his weapon as though it would bite and he whispered to Harry, "It's awfully heavy. Who'd want to carry that thing around? A wand is easier."
Harry stepped on his toe as he thought someone might hear. On his other side, Hermione was following the instructions with a frown of concentration, but her lips were pursed in a line that said she disliked the weapon, too. Harry supposed, however, that Hermione's dislike was more to do with a Muggle family's view that guns were bad in any situation than the mere fact that she was a witch.
After all the preliminaries, Worthington called out, "Enter your booth and take the position. On my word, send a round in the pattern I've showed you."
Harry faced the target and raised the gun in the position Worthington had demonstrated. It was really uncomfortable and he didn't like the idea that an opponent would have a face-on view of him as a return target from that position.
The target was a man-sized dummy with circles on it for aiming at. One was in the center of the forehead and one was over where the heart would be. Having seen Muggle movies, he had some idea of what a bullet might do to if it struck its target, and he didn't at all like the imagined image. When Worthington gave the word, he stared at the dummy and didn't fire.
"Oh, come on, Potter," the Lieutenant said. "Get a grip and give it a try."
Harry stepped back away from the booth and said; "I don't feel comfortable shooting like that."
"You don't feel comfortable?" Worthington snapped. "Tell that to me when you're being carted off to hospital or the mortuary because some terrorist got there first."
***
It figured, Johnny thought. Now Norway and his friends would have another reason to think Potter wasn't up to it. Potter was holding his gun gingerly as if it might explode and he looked as though he would throw the thing down and walk off. Surprisingly, he didn't look scared; he looked, if anything, irritated, and his pale face was flushed with annoyance.
"You can kill someone with this," the kid said in protest.
"That's right," Worthington said. "This isn't called Military Intelligence for nothing, we are a branch of the military. You're a soldier here man, and sometimes you may have to shoot to kill."
Potter's next response made Johnny wonder later, though at the time, he thought it was more distaste for the whole process of fighting.
"I don't care for killing," he said.
Worthington sighed and said, "Nobody does. Just imagine that target is your enemy. That target is going to blow up a school full of kids. That target will harm your friends and innocent people."
He paused to see the effect on the kid. The kid's face tightened minutely and nodded stiffly. Then in one smooth motion, he lifted the gun and sighted at the target, not in the classic position, but as if he had drawn a sword, and he squeezed off six shots in swift succession, three straight to the head, and three straight to the heart.
Everyone gawked at him and Worthington said, "I thought you didn't know how to shoot."
"I don't," the kid responded. "I mean, I've never used one of these before." He looked at the weapon with patent dislike and said, "It's not hard. Maybe that's why they're so dangerous, guns. They're really way too easy to use."
"Just lucky, then," Austin said.
Worthington must have thought the same because he made the kid reload and try a second time. It couldn't have been chance, however, because he hit the target once more, dead on, and with the same effortlessness, three to the head and three to the heart.
"Well," Worthington said, "Looks like you've got some talent, then, after all."
But Harry didn't look particularly flattered by the praise. "I don't think having a talent for killing is all that wonderful myself," he said acerbically.
***
Ron had adjusted to the Muggle environment both better and worse than Hermione had expected. Perhaps it was because the training program was not that different on the surface from life at Hogwarts. One got up, had breakfast at a communal mess hall, went to classes and even had homework. But he also could not get used to the idea that he really should be doing no magic there, not ever.
The previous evening had been typical. He had come pounding on her door complaining about the lousy Muggle substitutes for magic.
"Take these computer things," he said, "they're always losing my work. I had a whole report about surveillance tactics finally and now I can't find It."
"You haven't been doing magic in your room, have you?" she asked, though she knew what the answer must be.
"Well, not really much," he'd answered. And of course, not really much had turned out to be summoning spells because he wanted his book from across the room, shaving spells because razors were impossible, bed making spells (which he still couldn't do very well and probably a few others he couldn't recall or wouldn't admit to.
”Even small bits of magic will throw off a computer," she had answered, "if you do enough of them. And don't bother telling me no one could see. That's not the point."
Just now, he was preoccupied with eating a lunch and reading his Mum's letter. He had saved that particular bit of post until after Harry had finished eating and left the table, which hadn't taken very long.
Ron glanced up to check that Harry was out the door and then he leaned forward and said very softly, "Mum says the Daily Prophet has stories about people sighting Harry. She says there's one about him showing up in Tuscany and saving an Italian witch from a vampire. And there's another about him being seen in Liverpool chasing a harpy. And then there's another about him being seen in Knockturn Alley with former Death Eaters." He passed the letter, which was written on parchment with lavender ink, but which had arrived in a regular envelope with the correct amount of postage on it, and said with disgust, "People will say anything, won't they?"
Ginny made a sound that was halfway between a hiss and a laugh. "We shouldn't be surprised, should we? They have stories that Voldemort was sighted, too."
"The real problem," Hermione said, "is these stories could give the remaining Death Eaters enough to make them think that Harry is still alive and to start looking for him."
"You don't think they really will?" Ron asked. "I mean, they were there. "They saw You Know Who die just like we did. They saw Harry fall, just like we did." He paused and did not say the rest, the bit of miracle that only they had seen.
"I don't think even that is the real problem," Ginny said, "even if some people will believe anything so long as it goes in the Daily Prophet. It's Harry who's the real problem."
Hermione had to agree. "It's too bad this program is only three months," she said. "What will we do when we go back to London? How are we going to keep him from learning that people think he's dead?"
"Bloody hell," Ron said, "He's going to be so mad that we didn't tell him."
"Will, he though?" Ginny asked dolefully. "He doesn't seem to care about much of anything just now. It's like he doesn't really want to live...like he's forgotten things."
Hermione had to agree with that, too. It wasn't altogether different from how he'd been at times last year. Then he'd been distant at times, as if he were preoccupied, thinking of other things all the time he'd be talking to you. But that had partly been because of Voldemort. He had literally been preoccupied with keeping the Dark Lord shut out; and not always succeeded.
Now, it was as if were living on a different plane from the rest of them, in a different dimension, one that intersected with their reality, but different and separate nevertheless. She wondered just how real that other dimension was and if was what she feared it might be. If it was real.
***
Harry had thought he would spend the evening looking over the papers from their case investigation class. There were bits in there he wanted to review to see if there were any other clues to wizard involvement. He wanted to have everything clear before he talked to Bones about the potions box again, and he was rather sorry he had urged Bones to take it away. He should have examined it more thoroughly, he thought. However, just as he was about to sort through things once more, MacCready knocked on his door and suggested a more pleasant activity for the evening.
”Hey, Dead-eye Dan,” MacCready said, “Come and join us for the night. We’ve got passes off the Compound and Johnny’s wangled the loan of a Rover.”
”A night out of this place?” Harry asked. “That’s brilliant!” He grinned and shoved the papers to the side, not caring that a few had spilled to the floor. “So where are we going,” he asked, “and do you mind if Ron and the others come along?”
”What’re you joined at the hip with them or something?” Carter asked. But the question was good humored and he didn’t seem to mind when Harry knocked on Ron’s door and bellowed for Ron to come out.
Ron didn’t answer, but a few doors down, Ginny poked her head out curiously.
”Where’s Ron?” Harry asked. He smiled at her and added, “We’ve got passes out of the lock-up for the night. You can come, too.”
Ginny colored slightly and said, “Ron and Hermione went to do a bit of research.” She blushed a bit further and said, “I’ll come if you don’t mind the extra.”
”Don’t be an idiot,” he answered.
”Research?” MacCready said. “Does Granger ever do anything but study and work?”
Harry managed to keep a straight face as he answered, “Not often.”
He slid into the rear of the Rover and when they passed through the wrought iron gates of the Compound and past the security guard’s booth, he was so happy at the idea of being out that he would have been happy to land anywhere. Well, almost anywhere: he was pretty sure he still preferred even the Compound to Privet Drive.
After driving through winding country roads for perhaps ten minutes, they arrived at a building with an irregular stone front and a thatched roof. The sign at the door read The White Rose Inn.
Inside, the whitewashed stone walls and dark beamed ceiling were reminiscent of the Leaky Cauldron. However, any resemblance ended there, as the telly screen showing a football game (Manchester United against Liverpool) and lined up along one old stonewall was a small arcade of computer games.
MacCready led them into a side bar where old oak tables were surrounded by leather seated wooden chairs. On a far wall, a dart board hung, and at a table in the back, a group of men were hunched over a game of cards, their cigarettes dangling half-smoked and their mugs of beer and stout ignored in the suspense of the moment.
A waitress came over and handed them menus printed with gothic style letters and featuring dishes like partridge pie, Yorkshire pudding and roasted Cornish hen. Harry squinted at the menu in the dim light and saw that they had good old fashioned Shepherd's Pie.
He grinned at Ginny when he ordered a beer and leaned over to whisper to her that he'd rather have butterbeer any day. She shushed him with a stern look, but relented enough that a tiny dimple of a smile showed up on her cheek.
Harry dug into his pie hungrily and contented himself with watching MacCready try to persuade Brittany to go out with him.
“I don’t know why you won’t,” MacCready complained. “You go out with Sean and just about anybody else who asks, but not me.”
The tall woman leaned forward across the table and blew a light kiss at MacCready. Her silvery-blond hair trailed along with her and Harry was reminded of Fleur, Bill’s wife.
“I like you too much, Mac,” she said. Her blue eyes were kind, rather than teasing though. “I want you to like me as your friend, to respect me,” she added.
“I should think you’d only want to go out with someone who liked and respected you,” Ginny cut in.
“Absolutely,” MacCready said.
“The problem with Brittany,” Carter observed, “is that any guy she goes out with becomes obsessed with her. Look at poor Fletcher. He practically cried when she left him behind tonight.”
“You’re a fine one to talk,” she retorted, “All you have to do is walk down the room and half the women at the bar will throw themselves at you.”
Carter smiled and said, “Oh, I know. I like it just fine, too.”
MacCready shook his head and said, “I don’t know about the two of you. It’s like you’ve got some chemical that makes people lose their heads. Like magic.”
“There’s no such thing as magic,” Carter said. “You’re an engineer, a scientist. You don’t buy into nonsense like that.”
MacCready snorted with laughter and said, “Don’t say that too loud in front of your Mum.”
Carter looked amused and embarrassed. “Yeah, well, the thing about my Mum is she’s really brilliant. She just thinks she’s a witch, you know. Only she loves to aggravate my Dad by bringing it up in front of the wrong people.”
Brittany’s blue eyes were brilliant with laughter. “The wrong people being the PM and the Home Secretary?”
Harry looked at Ginny and saw she was trying to suppress a giggle. He supposed she wasn’t used to hearing Muggles talk about magic in the same way that Luna Lovegood used to talk about Crumple-Horned Snorkacks.”
A large shadow loomed over their table and Harry saw with distaste that Norway had found his way there as well.
“Hey, Norway,” MacCready said loudly, “I thought you were holed up with some girl for the night.”
“I dumped her,” Norway said after a barely perceptible pause. “She was getting tiresome. Too old, you know.” His muddy brown eyes traveled over Ginny and Brittany, but he refrained from making any remarks. Probably, Harry thought, because of Carter and MacCready, who were the only two in defense that ever beat the huge man.
He changed his mind, however, when Norway casually strolled over to the table in the corner where the men were playing cards. The others made way for him as if they knew the army man and the dealer dealt out a hand without asking. He gave up drinking his beer and eating his pie and watched the game with interest and wondered why Norway had bothered to lie about what he was doing there.
***
You couldn’t blame Potter for his hostility to Norway, Johnny thought. Really, it had to be conceded that the man was an obnoxious bully. He couldn’t help wondering why Potter was bothering to watch the man with such intensity. It wasn’t noticeable unless you caught the look in his eyes. He had given up eating and was sitting slouched in his chair as if perfectly relaxed. The thin face was calm and he made no move to pull away his hand from Ginny’s, which rested lightly on his wrist. But the green eyes watched the sergeant with the same intent expression as a cat stalking its prey, and the long fingers of his free hand drummed on the table as if without volition, like the twitch of the cat’s tail as it lay in wait.
More than ten minutes went by before the kid made his move. As if some internal signal had gone off, he rose nonchalantly and wandered over to the card players’ table.
“Mind if I try a hand or two?” Potter asked. The green eyes had a look of sleepy innocence and the kid looked impossibly young, the reason, no doubt, why one of the men gave a nod.
“If you have the ready to put up,” the man said.
Potter reached in his pocket and pulled out a ten-pound note, left from their last paycheck Johnny supposed, and tossed it on the table. He raised an eyebrow as if waiting for one of them, Norway maybe, to refuse. Though his face tightened with dislike, Norway did not object. The muddy brown eyes narrowed, though, and Johnny considered whether he ought to interfere. He saw that Ginny was biting her lip and watching anxiously, though he could not tell if she was more concerned about him losing money than about another fight breaking out.
“They’re going to take him for every shilling he has,” MacCready said.
“They’d have to play for the next lifetime to do that,” Ginny responded. Johnny stared at her and she added, “Harry’s got enough in the bank to keep him for three lifetimes. It’s him provoking that pig that I’m worried about.”
“Is he likely to?” Brittany asked curiously.
Ginny nodded and continued watching.
“I wouldn’t’ve thought him a troublemaker,” MacCready offered.
The redhead just snorted and said, “You don’t know him very well yet.”
They had played several hands and Harry had lost on every one but the first. The others were clearly enjoying his failure, and one went so far as to call for a beer for him. He drank half of it almost absently and tossed another ten pound note on the table without a wince. It was a good question which would occur first, the kid losing every pound in his pocket or getting drunk considering his relative weight and tendency to fatigue.
The men had begun to argue over the deal and Johnny noticed the kid had come alert, though none of the others had noticed. “You’ve cheated,” one of them, a fat bearded man who dealt the cards said. “I don’t cheat,” Norway answered angrily. “You cheated on the deal.”
Lazily, Harry scooped up the cards as if it were an ordinary thing and said peaceably, “I’ll deal. Then no one can argue.”
Two others nodded and said, “Why not? He’s just a kid, what can he do?”
Johnny saw without surprise that the kid had knocked over his beer as he flourished the cards. “Sorry,” he said, and he slouched toward the bar and said, “I’ll have another.” He grinned amiably at the men, saluted them and took another sip from the new beer, and then picked up a fresh pack of cards from the bin at the bar. The men grinned back, even Norway, when Harry spilled his new beer as he unwrapped the fresh deck. He shuffled the cards a bit awkwardly, whistling a bit under his breath and Johnny considered pulling the kid out once more. Ginny, however, was watching him now with a funny look in her eyes as though she were waiting for him to do something quite wicked?
He dealt the cards and lost that hand again. The men laughed and one of them slapped him on the back, not noticing that the green eyes were anything but drunk. None of the other men noticed when the kid shuffled the cards more smoothly the second and third time around and none of them found it suspicious that the kid finally won two times in a row. On the fourth round, Harry lost again, but this time an argument broke out again.
“You have been cheating,” Norway accused the fat man his accusation accompanied by language so foul even Brittany blushed.
“It’s him,” the fat man said, pointing his finger, which was bent and missing its tip, at a third man. It looked as though a real fight would break out, but Potter stood up abruptly and said coolly, “I know who’s been cheating.”
Norway glared at him and looked as though he would throw a punch. Potter reached out and lifted a card from inside the fat man’s sleeve, a card from the third man’s shirt pocket and a card from under the fourth man’s pile of money. Norway’s face was flushed with fury, but Potter did not go near him. The green eyes were fixed on the large man with nothing more than amiable amusement and Norway backed off when the kid said, “Cheating at cards is an honored old custom in some places. Everyone knows and everyone cheats and nobody tells.”
“You’re a bit young to be so clever,” the fat man said. “So what’s your name?” he added.
Potter hesitated and glanced at Norway, who said nothing. “James Black,” he answered calmly. Then he swept the cards off the table and picked up his winnings, which were no more and no less than what he’d started with, and walked toward the door without waiting to see if any of them would follow.
“Why James Black?” Johnny asked in the Rover on the way back.
“It was the first thing I could think of,” Harry answered.
“But why not say your own name?” Johnny persisted.
Potter gave him a sidelong look and said, “I thought we’re supposed to be keeping an oath of secrecy. Telling people who you are isn’t very secret, is it?”
***
Though he really hadn't drunk very much, by the time they got back, Harry's head was pounding and he felt overwhelmingly tired. He yawned uncontrollably and managed to say in the middle of it, "Thanks for the ride," before sloping off to his room for some rest.
None of the others said more than goodnight except for Ginny, who, followed him into his room and immediately began to lecture.
"You have no sense at all, do you, Harry Potter? You didn't know who those men were. You could have started a fight. They might have attacked you. And what were you thinking of giving a fake name like that?"
At another time, he might have bellowed right back, but he was so tired he simply tossed his jacket on the back of the desk chair, kicked off his boots and fell down on the bed with another large yawn.
He looked hazily at Ginny and said, "Don' worry. 'S not like any of them are wizards and know who I am."
She made a sound of frustration and then reached over to feel his forehead. Whatever she said though was lost as he fell instantly into a deep sleep.
The card in his pocket was an ace of diamonds. So were the one down his boot and the one up his sleeve. There should have been four, but the fourth one was missing.
He threw down the cards and they landed straight up and expanded and each became the door into a maze of corridors. He thought he was in the Department of Mysteries at first and then realized, no that was the other time. His mind shied away from that and he walked through the door with the ace on it into a room filled with cases and cases of diamonds and gold and guns.
At the back of the room a tall man stood with his back to Harry and in his right hand was a long staff crowned with the silver head of a serpent. The serpent flexed suddenly and came sweeping down out of the staff and slid through the maze of boxes until it came to another door, a low door into a cupboard under the stairs. It slid through a vent and curled itself up next to the baby in the cot and slept.
Harry woke with a start and flailed about looking for his wand. Moonlight poured into his room illuminating the single bed, reflecting off the computer monitor, shimmering off the soft skin of his jacket and boots.
He shook his head to try to clear it and then he felt around under his pillow for his wand, but it wasn't there. Then he remembered and pulled it from his boot where he kept it ready, just in case.
He put it back in the boot and shoved his boots back on and without stopping to consider he opened the door and walked down the dimly lit corridor of the dormitory, down the stairs and out the side door, wanting nothing more than some fresh air before he suffocated.
He gulped in cool air and didn't mind the cold. If Ron and Hermione knew what his dreams were like, he thought, they'd think he was finally cracking up. He shuddered and thought, they're just bits and pieces of everything. Kids in cupboards, serpents, mazes...all the pieces of my life that can't be discarded, that collect in my brain...just bits and pieces...old junk in the attic...
A voice cracked at him, shocking as though he'd stood too near a lightning flash, "What the devil are you doing out after curfew, Potter?" It was Daniels. Harry gaped at him and couldn't think of a single thing to say.
"Well?" the Lieutenant demanded.
Recovering himself, Harry said simply, "I couldn't sleep and I wanted some fresh air."
“You couldn’t sleep?” Daniels echoed. “Well, I don’t suppose you’ve slept through every class or assembly where we’ve mentioned the importance of Compound security and the detention of unauthorized persons? You could’ve been shot by the guards, you idiot!”
Embarrassed, Harry said, “I didn’t think.” Then a thought struck him and he said, “Hang on, though. What are you doing out here at this hour, then?”
“I saw your door was a ajar and you were gone,” Daniels replied. The Lieutenant’s gaze under his bushy eyebrows was nearly as sharp and disconcerting as Dumbledore’s could be at times.
“Oh,” Harry said. “But, what were you doing out at two in the morning?”
“Working on a case,” Daniels replied. “Not that it’s any of your business.” He looked at Harry quelling and added, “What are you up to, Potter? I heard you got totally pissed and nearly passed out in the car on the way back from the pub.”
Harry was glad it was dark and the flush on his cheeks was hidden. “I wasn’t drunk,” he said. “Not really.”
Daniels’ gaze sharpened further and Harry thought; that was a mistake. “You were knocking things down,” Daniels said “and passed out almost before you got back. Not very wise behavior for an intelligence officer.”
“How’d you know that anyway?” Harry asked.
Daniels stared at him and said, “I overheard some of the others talking about it.”
Harry stopped at the entrance to the building, where their progress had taken and said with satisfaction, “Norway, I guess.”
“That doesn’t bother you?” Daniels asked, “That a fellow officer thinks you’re incompetent and a drunk?”
“Nothing Norway thinks bothers me,” Harry said contemptuously. “And obviously he’s not as sharp as he thinks if he couldn’t figure out I wasn’t drunk.”
Harry could feel Daniels’ surprise and again, he thought, I ought to have kept quiet. He added, “I’d rather you didn’t let on, though. I wouldn’t want to take away his illusion of superiority.”
“If you weren’t drunk, and you played that deliberately, then just what are you up to?” Daniels asked again.
“Nothing,” Harry sighed. “Nothing at all. Only I thought it was a bit weird, him sitting in on this card game as if he knew the people already, and I was curious about it.”
“So you pretended to be drunk to get in the game?” Daniels asked thoughtfully.
Harry nodded and waited.
“It still doesn’t explain what you’re doing out of bounds at two in the morning,” Daniels insisted.
“Who’s out of bounds at two in the morning?” Harry jumped. They had continued into the building as they spoke, and Inspector Bones’ voice had broken into their conversation. The Inspector, he saw, was dressed in jeans and a leather jacket, not his usual suit. And the silver-grey eyes looked unsurprised when they targeted Harry.
“Potter,” Daniels said. “He hasn’t explained what he was up to satisfactorily either.”
“I told you,” Harry said defensively, “I couldn’t sleep and I wanted some fresh air.”
“That’s not quite true,” Bones said. “You practically passed out on your way back here.”
Harry muttered a swearword and said, “Does everybody here know that?”
“He claims he wasn’t drunk,” Daniels said.
"No?" Bones asked.
"Tired, maybe," Harry said. "Look," he added, "I wanted them to think I was drunk so they'd let me in the card game. I dunno why, I was just curious."
"What card game?" Bones asked.
"Norway and some friends of his. They were playing for money, not real serious money, but for a good stake anyway, and I wondered how come he already knew this lot. Especially that kind, so I, erm, invited myself into the game."
"As James Black?" Bones asked.
Harry gawked at him. "How'd you know that?"
"It's the name you used two years ago when you worked for Black Jack Crowley," Bones answered.
"You knew about that?" Harry said. And when Bones nodded, he said, "I forgot about that. I don't remember telling you about that."
"Who's Crowley?" Daniels asked.
"A right old villain," Harry answered before Bones could. "A card sharp and criminal. He had an ongoing game and most of the men who played in it were in gangs of some sort."
"And you were working for him? Doing what? Running drugs, messenger boy, or something?" Daniels asked sharply.
Bones looked rather amused, as he answered for Harry, “No he was telling fortunes. Reading palms and crystal balls." The amusement faded and the Inspector said more sympathetically, "Not entirely by choice, either."
"You know everything," Harry said irritably.
"You were still working for a gang, then," Daniels said. "How'd you get in here then?"
"I recommended him," Bones said coolly. Daniels gave him a sharp stare, but the Inspector turned the conversation back where Harry would have preferred not to go. "So," Bones said, "What was it about the card players that made you give a fake name?"
"I dunno," Harry said. "They just seemed exactly like the type that hung out at the Black Jack and I couldn't figure out what Norway would be doing with them. The interesting thing," Harry added, "is that Norway didn't contradict me and say my true name."
"Perhaps he didn't give them his real name either," Daniels hazarded.
"That would be even stranger," Harry replied, "because he went straight to their table as if he knew them and they had a seat waiting empty like it was just for him."
"You could be making something out of nothing," Bones said. "They could be friends of his that he arranged to meet in advance. Not everybody who plays cards for a bit of money is a criminal, you know."
Harry shrugged and didn't reply. Whatever they were, he thought, they weren't your average law abiding citizens.
Bones, however, had not forgotten the other part. "You still haven't explained what you're doing out here at two in the morning." The grey eyes were on his and they had the same expression they wore when the Inspector was interrogating a suspect.
"I was sleeping for a bit," Harry admitted, "and then I woke up and couldn't get back to sleep. I just wanted some air. I told you."
"So you woke up," Bones said silkily, "and just wandered out into a heavily guarded Compound where you knew you weren't supposed to be."
Both Bones and Daniels were looking at him now, and neither one, he could see, would take less than the truth. "I had a nightmare, all right?" Harry said with aggravation. "I woke up from it and didn't think about where I was. I just wanted to get out."
"Bad dreams?" Daniels said. "Well, this is military intelligence, son. You don't get to be tucked in by your Mum every night."
Bones must have seen the look on Harry's face as he cut in immediately, "Nightmares about what?"
Harry's anger at Daniels' tactlessness died as quickly as it had risen. The Inspector's question had been more urgent than he would have expected, but he was now weary beyond measure. "The usual," he said briefly, "I've had them for years."
"What do you mean the usual?" Bones asked intently.
Harry frowned. "Not about him if that's what you're asking. Being stuck in a maze with no way out."
Harry turned to go, but Daniels stayed him with a hand on the arm. Surprisingly, his gaze was more sympathetic. "What was in the maze?" he asked.
He might not have answered had he not been so tired, but the words just seemed to slip out, "Boxes," Harry answered. "Boxes and boxes of diamonds and gold and guns. And at the end of the maze was a man with a serpent and a baby sleeping in a cupboard." He paused and said, "Just a lot of nonsense, really."
