The Heart of Gryffindor
by SJR0301
Part II - Chapter Four
In the next days and weeks, they spent more time practicing with guns, it seemed to Harry, than an Olympic sharpshooter would in practice for the games. They practiced over and over shooting at targets from farther and farther distances. Then they practiced shooting at moving targets. Then they had to be able to hit the same target twice in almost instantaneous succession. They moved from that to a more difficult phase.
On a cool crisp September morning, Worthington took them to an outdoor range. The range had dummies set up in various places and he set the recruits in pairs first and then in trios.
"The object," Worthington instructed, "is to be able to work in tandem with other officers. When a situation goes down, it goes fast and noisy and messy and it's full of confusion. You need to be aware who's your friend and who's your enemy. You've got to be able to pick out your target, react, and move on without mistaking a fellow officer for a target."
Harry moved automatically to stand by Ron and for once the Lieutenant didn't separate them.
"Right," Worthington said, "Choose someone you know you can work with for the first rounds. Then later, you'll be paired with every other person here, so you get used to working in teams with anyone."
"This is quite a lot like our defense classes last year," Ron said quietly.
Harry nodded. When their turn came, he looked at Ron said, "Let's use the pattern we used last year, okay?"
It was trickier with a gun than a wand to stay coordinated. The gun had recoil that even after weeks of practice was hard to control. They moved through their pattern, each of them knowing in advance which target would be taken in which order. At the end, Harry's hand and arm were shaking from the effort of using the gun with the same speed and accuracy that he would use a wand.
"Not bad," Ron said. "But I still can't go quite as fast as you do. I'm always a little behind."
"Timing is everything," Worthington said. "You need to be in perfect coordination with the team or you could kill the wrong person."
"Kill?" Harry said.
Worthington rolled his eyes and answered, "Yes, kill. In a real situation, there will be targets mixed in with innocents, hostages, or bystanders. You can't afford to leave a target standing or the innocents will be killed. You can't afford to let a target go, or he may accomplish the act you're trying to prevent." The Lieutenant glared at Harry and then at all of them in turn. "There's no room for mistakes here. If you can't reach the minimum standard of accuracy, you could not only miss a target, you could be killing an innocent bystander you're supposed to be rescuing."
How did I get into this? Harry thought after. I don't want to be killing anybody, especially not with a gun. At least with a wand, you could capture and incapacitate someone without killing or injuring him. Not for the first time, he felt weighed down and trapped, mired in this Muggle place that was so grim and utterly lacking in magic.
"How could they do this to us?" he asked later.
They had all ended up in a corner of the mess hall, which served some of the same functions as the common room did.
"They?" Hermione asked.
"The Ministry," Harry said angrily. "How could they stick us here and force us to pretend to be Muggles."
"It kept the Muggle Minister happy," Ron answered.
***
The Muggle Minister might be happy, Hermione thought, but Harry clearly was not. He had, at least, put on some weight so that he no longer looked as though he would simply shatter at the smallest touch; but there was still quite often remoteness in his eyes, and faint shadows beneath them.
When he leaned forward, his gaze was anything but distant this time. "Have you thought anymore about what I told you," he said, "About Norway, you know."
Hermione tried to keep the frown of anxiety off her face. It had gotten to be all too difficult to conceal their worries from him. He seemed to have a built in radar now that let him know when they were just trying to pacify and distract him.
"Do you really think there's anything there?" she asked with her best skeptic's voice. "I mean, it's not so unusual for people to gamble or to arrange for their friends to meet them when they have a day off."
She threw a look at Ron, hoping to prod him into helping. "Yeah," Ron said, "we'd be calling you to meet us if we were in some program without you."
For a minute, she thought he would accept that. Then the green eyes narrowed and he said stubbornly, "You weren't there. You didn't see them. They started arguing and accusing each other of cheating and they were cheating. Only I think that was a cover for them to act as if they didn't really know each other." He turned to Ginny and said, "You were there. I'm right, aren't I?"
Hermione could feel the faint tensing in the girl beside her; but Ginny said perfectly calmly, "They were cheating. You even caught them at it." She hesitated and then added, "You don't think you're suspicious of him just because you don't like him?"
"Of course I'm suspicious of him because I don't like him," Harry answered. "He's a right evil bully. But it's more than that. There's something wrong with him. He's a liar."
"How do you know that," Ron asked.
"I dunno," Harry replied. "I just know it. He's a shifty git, okay?"
Hermione felt a faint frisson run down her spine. Voldemort, she thought, had known when people lied, too. Was it just that Harry had taken enough Legilimency classes that he had developed the same instinct?
She bit her lip and said, "People lie for all sorts of reasons, Harry. It doesn't mean Norway is doing anything wrong." She waited and then said the harder thing, "Are you sure you're not focusing on him as a substitute for Malfoy? I'm not saying he isn't nasty, just that maybe you, erm, are used to having a, erm, competitor?"
He drew back and the look in his eyes was one of furious denial. "I'm not just looking for an opponent to keep me entertained, if that's what you're implying. And I'm not paranoid or suffering from some psychological damage."
"Nobody's saying you are," Ron answered. "But you are having trouble adjusting to things, mate. There's no denying it."
"Trouble adjusting?" Harry echoed.
Hermione thought, this wasn't the right time to bring it up.
"To being alive," Ginny said. Her voice was low and just a bit shaky, but she met Harry's affronted stare face on. "You should be glad," Ginny, added in a very low voice, "that Voldemort's dead and you're alive. But you don't seem to be. You seem perfectly miserable. You don't make an effort to eat or take your potion to get your strength back. And you shut us out half the time like you blame us for being here, like it's our fault you're here at all."
Harry recoiled as though she'd slapped him and then his face turned cool and impersonal as if it was too much effort to stay angry. As if, Hermione thought, it took too much energy to care about anything for long. He shook himself slightly, as though recalling himself to some other reality, and said impartially, "Perhaps you're right." Then he walked away from the table with that remote look that said he existed somewhere else that none of them could see or touch or sense. It was, disconcertingly, like when he could see the Thestrals and they could not.
***
Harry shuffled idly through the packet of papers they had been given for their Case Investigation class. There was an interview with an anonymous snitch about a shipment of arms and possibly other things that was to take place sometime in September at an unknown place and on an unknown date. There were profiles of suspected terrorists: one, Boris Porskoff, from Bulgaria, was a possible leader in the New Anarchists Liberation Front; another, Paratha Singh, was from Kashmir, and a possible leader in the Kashmiri Revolutionary Army for Independence; a third, Geoffrey Jones was a known arms importer and had ties to the terrorists and to several criminal gangs in London, Bristol and Edinburgh.
There were grainy photos of the three suspects. In the photos, they looked just like anyone else. You would never think that Jones, for instance, was a criminal at all. He had flax colored hair and light blue eyes and he was dressed in a conservative suit of the kind Uncle Vernon would approve. Singh, the Kashmiri, looked obviously foreign, as he wore a red turban and the kind of white suit that no one in Britain ever wore. But there was no clue from his picture that he might be the type of person who could be involved in causing a train to derail or sending a letter bomb to a local M.P. Then there was Porskoff. He reminded Harry vaguely of Viktor Krum, perhaps because Harry knew he was from Bulgaria, and he also had heavy eyebrows and a crooked nose. Indeed, on the surface, Porskoff could be anybody’s jolly uncle. He was rather plump in the face and his beady eyes were crinkled at the corners. He had a heavy brown beard that was liberally streaked with white. It was only when you looked closely at the eyes that you saw the difference, they didn’t smile with the rest of him.
What was the good of looking at these profiles and the pictures? He found it hard to imagine himself actually finishing the training course and being assigned to a real case with the Muggle team. Whatever he had imagined himself doing after Hogwarts, it hadn’t resembled this. Was it really so different from what aurors did though? Aurors, he knew, had to investigate and track dark wizards. Aurors had to learn about their suspects. Aurors had to train to fight and to capture their targets. Were the dark wizards they went after any worse than these Muggle men? Was there really such a difference?
A small voice in his mind said, yes, and no. Aurors, he thought, didn’t really train to kill; at least, that’s what he thought. But was there any real difference in the evil. Voldemort had been a murderer. These men, too, might be murderers. Wasn’t it really the same?
He shuffled broodingly through more of the papers in his pile, and he noticed that mixed in with the new batch were e-mails and photos from their very first lot, the one that had been accompanied by a potions box. He started to put those aside as Bones had given them the new case file almost immediately after he had taken away the box. It was a small thing, a little irrational thing, but Harry found he was annoyed that Bones had told him nothing further about the box or whom it might belong to.
He pulled out the sheaf of papers and skimmed through them again. There were the e-mails from Big Jock and Hengist and the note on parchment from the unknown third man. There was the transcript of a meeting someone had taped and the photo of three men that was much worse than the three he had just looked at for his new file. Too bad they weren’t wizard photos. The people in wizard photos moved and had expressions. You might be able to get a better glimpse of the two men who were nearly concealed in the shadows with the thug, Big Jock. Harry squinted at the photo and a sudden thought struck him. He set the other three side by side with the old one and squinted to see if the resemblance between the bearded man in the shadows and the jolly smiling Porskoff really bore any resemblance to each other.
He looked at the e-mails again. There had to be a way to get more information out of them. It was a computer thing. Dudley would know, he thought. Really, it was dead annoying to think that there were some things in the world that Dudley actually knew more about than Harry did.
He got up and held the photos to the light and tried to think whether to ask Hermione what she thought. Only, she was sure, he thought resentfully, to scoff at his idea. Wizards couldn’t be working for Muggle criminals or terrorists, could they? He paced some more and ran his hands through his hair. Would Bones tell him if he asked? Or would he, too, tell Harry it was just practice, just classroom stuff. Only, Harry thought, Voldemort had Muggles under his command last year. Some of them had been crooks, too, which was how Bones had got involved in tracking down Voldemort in the first place. He could take his guesses to Bones, only Harry was sure the Inspector would listen and take the things away and tell him to go off like a good boy. No. He’d just have to find someone else to help without letting them know what he really guessed, what he really was after. Well, they’d all think he was mad if they knew what he was thinking.
***
Carter sifted through the newspaper clippings and magazine articles he’d collected on the Lord of Death. He’d been planning on writing a follow-up paper to his first one on the Psychology of Terror, but there was frustratingly little information. He’d figured this guy was perfect for an intensive, comprehensive psychological study. He wanted to discover if there were true similarities between a terrorist’s profile and the general profile that had been established for serial killers. Was there some kink that connected them? And what made them different? The usual serial killer killed alone and singly. Terrorists most often in batches. Yet they seemed to be similar in their complete lack of moral scruple when it came to taking other’s lives.
It was hard to get a handle on this one. He had started with a simple vandalism, a peculiar message that made him resemble a cult figure more than a terrorist. But he had swiftly progressed from that simple message to ever larger mass attacks and destruction. He had had some strange, advanced, black market weapons: lasers of some kind that even here, in the compound, no one admitted to having ever seen. And then he had disappeared, his less than a year reign of terror ended as abruptly as it had started, with the bare announcement of his death in a police raid, and no information whether any of the other members of his organization had been caught.
A light tap on his door startled him, and he shoved his clippings back in their file, not wanting anyone to see his research.
“Come in,” he said, thinking it must be Brittany or MacCready coming to tease him into trying for another night pass.
Potter poked his head in the room and said tentatively, “All right, Carter?”
Johnny nodded curiously at the kid and gestured for him to come in.
”Are you busy?” Harry asked. His untidy black mane was sticking up more than usual and glanced around at the room with a quick, inquisitive sweep of the bright green eyes. Once again, he reminded Johnny of a half-grown cat, all eyes and bones, and with a faintly nervous air that said he’d take flight or attack if provoked, though which was a toss-up at any given moment.
“What’ve you got?” Johnny asked, nodding to the sheaf of papers Harry was holding.
“E-mails,” Harry answered, “from our CI class.”
“I don’t remember any for our next assignment,” Johnny answered.
“Not this one,” he answered. The green eyes gleamed suddenly and he added, “From our first class. The ones we dropped, you know.”
“What about them?” Johnny asked. “It’s not like we’re still on that assignment,” he added, when Harry didn’t answer immediately.
“Well?” he prompted.
The bright eyes narrowed and seemed to search his, as if testing something. Then, they lightened and the kid said, “I was wondering if you know how to trace them. Like, erm, there must be some way to find out more about who sent them, or where they came from.”
Johnny raised his eyebrows in surprise and said, “I’m no expert, but MacCready or Hawkins might know. Only why d’you want to?”
“I dunno,” he answered warily. There it was again, Johnny thought, the nervousness, a skittishness that preceded flight. Only instead, the kid said with a rush, “It’s just, I’ve been thinking, this batch came from a real raid, Bones said. And I wondered, if we could figure out something more. Just, well, it’s something we should know how to do, right?”
Johnny thought fleetingly of the night pass he’d been thinking of asking for and then changed his mind. His own curiosity was roused, and besides, this was the first time the kid had ever expressed real interest in anything that Johnny could recall. His usual attitude was one of indifference or almost distaste, either laced with a kind of fatigue that made Austin whisper still about what the kid might be taking.
He hit the mouse and said, “Let’s give it a try,” and he was rewarded with a sudden brilliant smile of satisfaction, the smile of the cat that’s got its prey in sight.
Harry handed him the sheaf of e-mails and said, “What d’you reckon?”
Johnny got up and stuck his head out of his door and said, “MacCready! I need you.”
“Now what?” MacCready said. He watched with disappointment as one of the women in the other group walked down the hallway away from him. “Just when I had her about to agree to go out with me.”
The kid said sympathetically, “That’s girls for you. Just when you think you’ve figured them out, they change on you and they always make you feel like you’re the stupid one.”
MacCready grimaced and said, “That’s a lesson we all learn young.” He looked from Johnny to Harry and said, “What are you up to, anyway?”
“Tracking e-mails,” Johnny answered. “I figured we needed a computer freak like you to help.”
MacCready held out his hand for the papers and then looked them over. “These are the ones from our class a few weeks ago.”
“Right,” Harry answered. “I wanted to know how to get more information, to trace them, and I reckoned they’d be good practice.”
"Not much there to work with," MacCready said. "But, we do know what server they came from."
"Server?" Harry asked.
Mac gave him a look that said, what century were you born in, and answered; "You see those lines of text at the bottom, the strings of letters and words? Those tell you where the mail was last routed from. The web address is from a German server, but it's not much of clue, because it's a yahoo, and thousands of people use those."
"What if we send him a message?" Harry asked. "Like if we signed it with his name? Say one from Jock here in England to the other guy in Germany?"
"He'll know it's not from the right person," Mac answered. "You might as well wave a sign and say Hi, I'm tracing you, cause anything you send from here will have your address on it."
"What if we use an outside line?" Johnny said. He added quickly, when Mac stared at him, "We could sign up for a free account like they did and use the same name but a different server. It's possible he won't realize it's not the right guy. He'll see an e-mail from his friend Jock and maybe he'll answer."
"We could try," Mac said thoughtfully, "but what will you say that won't tip him off you're a fake?"
"How about," Harry said, "I've lost my present and need help retrieving it?"
“That’s a bit chancy,” Johnny cut in. “What if our German connection already knows whether Jock received the goods or not?”
“There is that,” Harry said.
MacCready frowned and said, “You’re jumping to conclusions anyway. You don’t even know for sure that he is German. All you know is that he signed up for e-mail on a German server.”
“So he could be anybody?” Harry asked. “So what we need,” he added slowly, “is a message that will bring him out. Maybe we should ask for a meeting somewhere.”
“Oh, very smart,” MacCready said, “You just show up and say, hi, here I am?”
Harry gave him a look that spoke volumes and said, “Don’t be a git, Jimmy Mac. We choose somewhere that has a convenient place overlooking it where we can hide and watch for him. We don’t introduce ourselves at all. And after he shows up and then decides to leave, we follow him, like in our Surveillance class.”
“Jimmy?” MacCready said. “I prefer James or Mac.”
The kid’s face closed up and he said shortly, “My dad’s name was James.” He paused almost imperceptibly and went on. “So what d’you think is a good place for a meeting? Somewhere in London?”
“You’re joking, aren’t you?” Mac said. “You don’t really think you can set up an unauthorized surveillance and carry it through? You’re a half-trained recruit. You know what trouble you can get into?”
The kid chuckled, just a little chuckle, that startled Johnny, and Mac, too, he could see. He supposed it was that he’d never heard the kid actually laugh at anything before. A small grin still curving his mouth, the kid said, “You sound just like Hermione does whenever I get an idea. There’s no danger. I mean, he’s never going to see us, and it’s not like we’re trying to arrest him. I just want to find out who he is and see, erm, if this works.”
Johnny studied the kid intently and asked, “So why didn’t you take this idea to Granger and Weasley, then?”
Harry raised his eyebrows and said coolly, “It’s our small CI class that had this assignment.”
“Yeah,” Mac said, “but we don’t have it anymore. So why do you want to involve us? Maybe your friends didn’t buy the idea.”
“I haven’t even suggested it to them,” Harry said stiffly. “We didn’t even think of it until now. Really, half of it is Johnny’s idea, not mine.”
“It is interesting,” Johnny cut in. “And it can’t hurt to try the e-mail. We don’t even know there’ll be a reply.”
Reluctantly, MacCready nodded, but when Johnny had pulled his laptop out of the closet and connected it to an outside jack, MacCready said, “Why do I get the feeling this is going to cause trouble?”
Potter didn’t reply. He just grinned again and Johnny couldn’t have said why he found that small sign of life and vitality so compelling.
MacCready booted up the computer and swiftly had them connected to an outside server. He set up an e-mail address with Big Jock as the owner and then opened a new message.
“How do you want to phrase this?” MacCready asked almost sarcastically.
“How about; I’d like to order a new present,” Harry offered, “and could you deliver it personally?” He paused and ran his hand through his already messy hair, ruffling it up even further. “Erm, and add this: Maybe we can meet at the British Museum. I’d love to show you my favorite exhibit in the Egyptian display.”
He looked at them challengingly and said, “I think that’ll work. They’ve already used presents as code and the Museum is big enough and has so many people going through that a few people meeting would go unnoticed.”
“It might work,” Mac said grudgingly. He typed in the message and hit send and the three of them looked at each other with something like embarrassment and defiance. There was something about agreeing to bend the rules all together that gave them a new connection.
“I’ll let you know if he answers,” Johnny said.
Harry looked disappointed and said, “You don’t think he’ll answer right away?”
“It could be a few days,” MacCready answered. “We don’t know how often he checks his mail, or who he is, or what he’s doing.”
Perhaps it was the new bond they had that made Johnny ask again, “So why didn’t you ask Granger to help you, really?”
And perhaps it was that, too, that made the kid answer. He grimaced slightly and said, “They all want to protect me, you know. They keep trying to wrap me in cotton batting just because I was sick before we started here.”
Johnny noticed the hesitation and thought Mac must have too. But he didn’t question it. He didn’t think it would be a good idea to ask if the kid had been in a rehab program or had some kind of breakdown. Though he thought that either one would have disqualified the kid for training.
***
The worst part about defense class was that Norway continued to take advantage of his greater strength and skill every time he was paired up with Harry. Neither his dislike nor his contempt for Harry had abated, and Harry had come to feel he had Dudley's unknown twin perpetually annoying him. Consequently, when they moved to a new variation on arrest simulations, Harry would have skived off altogether. He couldn't though, as it wasn't until Worthington explained what they had to do and read out the assignments that Harry realized he was in for trouble.
"This exercise," Worthington said, "will serve a double purpose. Some of you will be assigned to seize a fleeing suspect and you will take the exercise from the point of view of the arresting officers. You'll have one suspect to deal with who will be resisting arrest. The person who plays the suspect is to take the exercise from the point of an officer who has been surrounded by several suspects and must escape capture. Is that clear?"
"What exactly do you mean by capture?" MacCready asked.
"I mean that you are fighting to keep from being captured by a group of suspected terrorists," Worthington clarified, "and you must escape or face interrogation, torture or death."
"Brilliant," Harry muttered sardonically to Ron. "Sounds like the story of my life."
Ron shushed him and gave him a worried look, but Harry simply glared at him, daring him to look too sympathetic.
The first group to take their turn had a terrible time overcoming their suspect who was played by MacCready. As MacCready was as big as Norway, the others kept getting him down only to have him throw them off and nearly escape several times. Eventually, however, MacCready was tripped up and two of them sat right on his back whilst the other two managed to cuff him.
"Not bad," Worthington said to the big engineer. "A little more practice and you might even throw them off altogether."
The second group was a mixed crew of men and women. But that didn't matter as Carter's cousin Brittany was an accomplished fighter and she flattened the "suspect" with two blows before anyone could blink. Everyone laughed when her captive said, "You can interrogate me any time."
Naturally, Harry thought, he would be selected to be the "suspect/captive," and naturally, Norway would be one of the "officer/terrorists." Next to him, Ron stirred and would have protested, but Harry wasn't about to ask for another group.
Harry stood up when he was called and walked to the center of the room wishing gloomily that he could use his wand and simply freeze the lot of them. He shrugged however and put on an expression of indifference. At least, he figured, the whole thing would be over fairly quickly.
The four of them, Norway, Austin, Peters and Fletcher, circled him. Harry eyed them and lunged for the gap between Peters and Fletcher. Peters, however, threw him back and one of the others behind him hit him hard in the head. He fell to his knees and felt his vision blur.
***
Carter winced at the blow Norway had landed. Right to the head, too. Poor Harry just didn't stand a chance in this situation. Weasley, he could tell, must think the same, for he muttered quietly, "This isn't good. This isn't good at all."
At a signal from Norway, Peters and Fletcher grabbed the kid by each arm and dragged him quickly to one of the columns that provided support for the ceiling. They shoved him up against the column and pulled his arms behind him. Austin pulled out a length of rope and began to tie him up with the efficient quick knots of a sailor. It was over that fast, Carter thought.
The kid looked positively dazed. In a moment however, his expression altered to something halfway between panic and fury and he began struggling and tugging at the rope so that Austin could not quite finish. Norway moved around to the front and laid a large hand on the kid's shoulder, perhaps meaning to hold him still for the final capture.
Face utterly white and eyes huge and furious, Harry kicked out leaning against the column for support. One foot caught Norway in the most vulnerable of all places and Norway was flung back yelling and cursing. Harry kicked out again and caught Fletcher in the chin. Peters moved in to try to restrain the kid, but he had managed to slip the rope and he landed a single clean shot with his fist right in Peters' nose.
With a clear space now in front of him, Harry moved with sudden speed and literally leapt over Norway's recumbent form. He was going to get away, Johnny thought incredulously. But then, that thought was revised. Behind him, Austin had reached for and aimed one of the permitted restraints, a net gun. He pulled the trigger and a fine nylon net shot out of the gun and into the air. It was one of the most useful methods of restraint, they had learned, as the suspect would be so tangled in the net that he could not run.
Time seemed to slow oddly, and Harry half turned and jumped into the air like American basketball player. He reached out and caught the round metal ball that was the lead and the anchor for the net and while still in the air, he twitched it so that the net ballooned out and landed on the four other men, ensnaring them in its folds.
Harry landed and kept moving, so that he was nearly to the door before Worthington blew the whistle. The Lieutenant's eyes were fairly popping from his head and Johnny knew that practically everyone else in the class was gawking the same as he was. Weasley, on the other hand, had sighed with what sounded like relief.
The others had finally managed to get out from under the net. Norway was still on the floor and he managed to say viciously, "I'll kill you, Potter, if you ever try a trick like that on me again."
Worthington said sharply, "That's enough," and then added, "That was good, Potter. I didn’t think you had it in you."
The kid didn't look happy at the praise. His face was still pale and furious as he flung off the rope that had clung to his wrists. "I don't like being tied up or pinned down," he said angrily. "I don't like it at all." Then he turned and walked out without asked for permission to leave.
Weasley stood up abruptly and made to go after him, but was stayed by a glance from Worthington.
"Did you know he could fight like that?" Worthington asked.
Weasley opened his mouth to answer and then snapped it shut again. After a second, he said, "Course I knew. He’s a mild kind of guy, Harry is, but you don't want to be his enemy in a real fight."
Weasley left quickly and the four who'd been taken by surprise were left behind grumbling.
"I thought you said you could tie him fast in five seconds," Norway said to Austin.
"I had him tied," Austin protested. "He shouldn't have been able to get out of the rope."
"Well, you must not have tied it tight enough," Norway retorted. His blocky face was purple with fury still as he added, "It's not like he had a knife concealed on him. He shouldn't have gotten away."
Johnny picked up the discarded rope and saw that the white nylon had red stains on it. The kid must have ripped his skin off slipping out of it. He tucked it in his pocket, though he couldn't think why, and it wasn't until later that he noticed the rope still had the knots in it. It had been severed, but not by a knife either. The ends looked odd, almost melted, rather than cut or torn. He put it in a drawer thinking he'd have to ask about it some day.
***
Edgar strode toward the gym wondering what had put Worthington in such a stew. He had his answer before he got there though as someone coming at a furious pace bowled right into him.
“Easy there,” Edgar said, “What’s going on?”
“I’m out of here,” Harry answered.
He tried to push past Edgar, but Edgar caught hold of his arm and said, “Hold up, Harry.”
Harry stilled, but his thin face was taut with tension and the untidy black hair was damp with sweat. “I’m leaving,” he repeated. “I don’t like this place. I don’t want to be here. It’s not what I expected when I applied for the Ministry.”
“It’s not what the others expected either,” Edgar answered quickly. He tried to think what could have brought on the sudden revolt and how to stop everything from unraveling. His answer brought no lessening of tension, but a faint frown carved a vertical line between the youth’s winged brows. Edgar took advantage of the momentary pause and said, “Tell me what’s upset you.”
“This,” Harry replied. He held up his wrists, which were scraped raw, and related in two quick sentences what had occurred.
“You didn’t use magic to get out of it?” Bones asked at a near whisper.
“Of course not,” Harry answered. “They would never have touched me if I had.” Bones could see the race of his pulse at his throat as he added, “I really don’t want to do this anymore.”
Bones considered him and tried to figure out why Harry was so distressed. After a quick glance to be sure they would not be overheard, he answered, “It’s no worse than what you might get in normal auror training. I bet you’ve had far worse just in ordinary defense classes at Hogwarts.”
“That’s different,” Harry said. But he had lost some of the steam and conviction. As the tension subsided though, you could see it replaced as quickly with weariness and the shadows under his eyes and beneath his cheeks seemed to deepen. “I don’t like being taught to kill,” he said. “I don’t like guns and I don’t like this place.” He hesitated and then continued; “I don’t see how you stood it all these years, trying to pretend to be a Muggle.”
Edgar thought that the distress in the green eyes told of a far deeper trouble, but what was important was keeping the boy there. He settled for a brisk, no-nonsense reply. “It’s not that different except in the tools we use, Harry. The object is the same if you think about it. As an auror, your job is to stop dark wizards who terrorize the innocent. As an officer here, your job is still to stop those who terrorize the innocent.” He paused to let that sink home and went on, “And don’t forget, your training is with the larger department, but eventually, your work will actually be the work of an auror. You just have to learn alternate methods because there’ll be times when you’ll have to fight like a Muggle depending on the circumstances involved.”
“If Voldemort’s really gone,” Harry asked, “why do we have to be here?”
Edgar tried to meet the green eyes serenely. “The Prime Minister demanded it. You know that. It’s the price we’re paying for Riddle’s excesses. He took his war to the Muggles and we’re paying for it still.”
“And what if I don’t want to fight anymore?” Harry asked.
“Do you really mean that?” Edgar asked warily.
He got no answer though, as several people were approaching from the gym entrance.
Weasley came striding up first and said, “All right, Harry?”
Worthington arrived only a few steps behind him followed by several other recruits.
“Leaving class without permission, Potter,” Worthington said. “That’s not on, you know. Can’t have the chain of command challenged like that.”
Mentally, Bones cursed the Lieutenant, though he understood his stance. Quickly, before Harry could repeat his intention to leave, he interrupted, “He already knows that. It won’t happen again.”
He was more than relieved when Harry said stiffly, “Can I go then?” and then at Bones’ nod, he headed off toward the dormitory as though the incident were the most trivial break from routine.
Worthington shook his head and said, “I don’t get it. Every time I think the kid’s got the stuff to make it, he acts as if he’s scared of his own shadow and ready to run for it.”
Face flushed red from his forehead to his ears, Weasely blurted out furiously, “You’d be more than terrified if you had to face some of the things Harry’s had to.”
Bones gestured for Ron to shut up, but he went on as if he hadn’t noticed. “He’s just upset today cause he was kidnapped out of school when he was fourteen and they tied him and …;” He stopped there, his jaw snapping shut on the revelation and Bones drew in a breath of relief.
“And?” Worthington prompted.
Bones opened his mouth to interfere, but he saw that Weasley had realized the need for care. The redhead said tightly, “He escaped, but it’s a bad memory all the same. They brought it back when they tied him up.”
“Who?” Worthington started to ask, but this time Bones said decisively, “It’s up to Harry if he wants to discuss it. In the meantime, let’s remember that not every officer is will be sharpshooter. We all have our strengths and will be assigned accordingly.”
“And what’s he fit for, then, except to sit behind a desk,” Norway asked, “if he runs at the first sign of trouble?”
“It was you crying on the floor just a minute ago,” Weasley said hotly, “not Harry.”
Bones saw some of the others grin at that. Norway was undoubtedly disliked by more recruits than Harry.
“Don’t you all have other things to do?” he asked pointedly.
He waited for the others to disperse, but stayed Weasley with a glance. “Watch yourself, Ron,” he said softly. “That was information they didn’t need to know.”
Weasley swallowed and said, “Yeah, I know. I just get mad, you know, when they think Harry’s a coward or a weakling.” He added hesitantly, “They shouldn’t have made him start so soon. He wasn’t ready for this.”
Bones raised his eyebrows and said dryly, “He escaped from four men all of whom are bigger than he is and all of whom have better unarmed combat skills than he has. I’d say he was doing pretty well under the circumstances.”
Weasley grinned and said, “You should’ve seen that git groveling on the floor after Harry kicked him. None of them were expecting any real resistance, specially not after they got him tied up. I just hope,” he added more seriously, “they don’t do something that’ll remind him of anything worse. For a minute, I was afraid he’d pull out his wand and start jinxing the lot of them.”
Alarmed, Bones asked, “He wouldn’t do that, would he?”
Weasley shrugged and said, “I dunno. I don’t think so, but I wouldn’t like to see him in a situation where he might.”
~~~
“How is Harry?” Dumbledore asked.
Bones stared for a second as he had thought their meeting was about Order business.
“Not well,” he answered. The elderly wizard’s face looked more seamed and tired than ever before as Bones quickly related Harry’s aborted flight from the training program.
“When you say he’s not well,” Dumbledore asked, “do you mean physically or … otherwise?”
“Both,” Bones said bluntly. “He’s somewhat stronger than he was, but he’s still far too thin and lacking in stamina. As for otherwise…” Bones hesitated trying to find the right way to explain his assessment, when it was based on Muggle psychology, not wizard healing. “The fact is,” Bones began again, “he’s tired. He’s been forced to fight against an enemy that no adult wizard could face at an age when he should have been carefree. He’s been injured to the point of death and survived by, well, I don’t know how or why and I suspect even you don’t either, sir. In the Muggle world, they’d say he’s suffering from battle fatigue or post-traumatic stress.”
Dumbledore simply nodded his head and said, “I see.”
Next to him, Arthur Weasley contrived to look distressed and angry all at once. “We should never have let the Muggles know he survived.”
“We’ve been over this,” Dumbledore said regretfully.
“Yes,” Weasley answered, “and we’ve been over the fact that he shouldn’t have been made to start work so soon. And we’ve been over the fact that none of them should be working for the Muggles. And unfortunately,” he added more angrily, “the Muggle Prime Minister wants to know when the hero who defeated You Know Who will be available for an assignment.”
“What assignment?” Bones asked. “He’s not finished even his preliminary training! And how come I don’t know anything about this?”
Dumbledore and Weasley exchanged a look that said a thought was confirmed.
“We’re not sure,” Weasley answered, “whether it’s for some political advantage or whether there’s some threat that we don’t know of. Though if it’s to do with magic and wizards, I don’t see how we wouldn’t.”
“And you want me to talk to the PM?” Bones asked.
“We want you to join us when we meet with him,” Weasley replied. “We want you to let him know Harry’s not fit for an assignment of any kind, if he ever will be.”
Bones regarded the pair of men coolly. “I see. You want me to speak to him in Muggle terms, is that it?”
Dumbledore sighed. “Of course not. You have been observing his progress directly, that’s all. You can tell him from personal observation that it won’t do.” The blue eyes regarded him keenly as the old man added, “And it’s just possible that you’ll be able to persuade him to tell us where he got information about dark wizards at work that we are ignorant of.”
Bones thought a moment and said slowly, “It could be that there are no dark wizards or magic involved. Remember, he is a Muggle, and though he knows magic was used in some of those attacks last year, he doesn’t necessarily recognize true magic any better than any other Muggle.”
Weasley’s gaze lightened in comprehension. Then he said quietly, “You will keep Harry there, won’t you? You mustn’t let him leave.”
“What about the child?” Bones asked. “Have you found him? Or located any of the Death Eaters?”
“Nothing,” Dumbledore answered. “We had information twice that took us to their hideout minutes after they had fled. So you see,” he continued, “why we’re so concerned that Harry should stay hidden until he’s well. They’ve lost everything because of him, and the child, they think, is their one last chance at a return to power.”
“I still don’t understand that,” Bones replied.
Dumbledore sighed and his light blue eyes were dark with worry. “I fear that they don’t really understand either. I would guess that they refuse to believe Voldemort is truly dead, even the ones that were there and saw it.”
“I’m not sure I blame them,” Bones replied dryly, “seeing that I could have sworn I saw Harry die, too, and yet he’s alive.”
“He is truly dead,” Dumbledore said sharply. “But you do see it is imperative that Harry’s survival be kept secret.”
At Bones’ nod of assent, Dumbledore looked relieved. He brought out a small crystal flagon filled with a ruby colored liquid. “Give this to him and make sure he takes it, even if you have to hold him down like a baby.”
Bones raised his eyebrows and said, “I’m not sure anyone can force Harry to do anything he doesn’t want to do, not even you. But I will try to persuade him.” He held the jar to the light and the ruby colored liquid glowed with an almost jewel-like luster. “What is it, anyway?”
“A special version of a revitalizing potion,” Dumbledore answered calmly. “We think it will help him recover his health more quickly.”
Later when Bones returned to the Compound and handed Harry the potion to take, he was surprised at the youth’s lack of protest.
“It’s from Dumbledore?” he asked. At Bones’ nod, he grumbled, “Ginny must’ve written her Mum.”
“How do you reckon that?” Bones asked.
The boy’s mouth curved in a small smile. “Ginny’s constantly hanging over me like a broody hen, she wrote her Mum and Mrs. Weasley badgered Mr. Weasley and Professor Dumbledore to do something. So the Professor got Madam Pomfrey and Snape to concoct a potion to make her happy.” He opened the stopper and tossed down the potion in one gulp. Then he stopped and tipped his head sideways like a bird that’s been startled and said, “Moody’d be mad I took it like that, wouldn’t he?” and after a breath he asked, “They haven’t gone and put a sleeping potion in it?”
It seemed there weren’t any sleeping ingredients added, as the boy remained alert. But his pale face warmed and the deep shadows lifted, so that for the first time since June, Harry looked almost healthy.
