Susan screamed. It was a fair reaction, considering Harry walked in covered with a burnt man's ashes.
"It's alright. The burns aren't mine," Harry said.
That didn't do much to calm her. Susan lurched, putting her back against the wall, and grabbed her stomach. Her scream had earned the attention of others. Hannah and Fleur burst into the room with Fang the dog hot on their heels. They were followed shortly by Narcissa. Dobby also appeared from thin air, fussing and using his magic to cleanse Harry's skin. Harry gratefully accepted his help.
"Is that Rookwood you're wearing?" Narcissa asked.
Susan looked like she might hurl, which further amused Narcissa. She didn't seem particularly serious for a woman discussing a murder. She almost sounded excited.
"I watched him die," Harry said.
"You didn't kill him?" Hannah asked.
"It was Voldemort. He was there. He asked about me."
Fleur grabbed Harry's hand— the right one, which Dobby had finished cleaning. "What did he ask, my love?"
"He wanted to know if Rookwood had told me a prophecy."
They were something Harry knew of… distantly. He'd been taught what they were of course. Visions of the future, spoken by seers— wizards with a talent not learnable by most. Prophecies came in cryptic language and were always true, just typically in unpredictable ways. Harry had never heard a real prophecy. They were locked away in the Department of Mysteries, only available to Unspeakables. Some rumors said even the Ministry's most secretive workers couldn't access them as they pleased.
The girls around Harry exchanged looks. "Have you ever heard of a prophecy about yourself before?" Fleur asked.
Harry shook his head. "Never. Not until today."
It had shaken him. He believed — not out of arrogance — that his was the kind of life a prophecy might pertain to. Being taken as Voldemort's pupil was enough proof of that. What bothered him was the way Voldemort reacted.
He let Rookwood live through multiple scathing insults, just to gleam if Harry had learned anything about this prophecy. Voldemort was…
Scared.
That's how it looked. He was troubled, at the very least. What could bother Lord Voldemort that deeply?
"The Dark Lord was desperate to know if I'd heard it," Harry said. "More than anything, he wanted to keep that prophecy away from me."
Fleur squeezed his hand. "But he failed."
"Half-failed, at best," Narcissa said. "Harry knows of the prophecy, but he doesn't know what it is. We can't infiltrate the Department of Mysteries to discover the words. Our enemies hold the cards."
She took something out of her robes and tossed it onto Harry's knee. It landed with a smack. Harry picked up a letter. He was struck by a sense of deja vu, remembering the days when Narcissa would sort his mail. Things had come so far since then.
When he lifted the letter, he found it embossed with a Wizengamot seal. Reading the contents, it was a summons. The killing of Severus Snape was to be discussed at the next meeting, In light of new evidence. Harry did not need multiple guesses to know who guilt would be thrown on.
He carefully folded the letter, set it aside, and shredded it on the coffee table with a tap of his wand.
Narcissa nodded in agreement. "If one trial didn't work, they'll try a second one. It has my husband's fingerprints all over it. Surviving one vote was a hard enough task."
"There's a good chance that Crouch won't attend," Harry said.
"Will you gamble your freedom on that?"
Harry's sour look made Narcissa nod. "Precisely. We'll have to avoid attending ourselves. Try to think of a good excuse."
They couldn't buy much time running from Ministry charges. If the whole Auror department was deployed, even Harry's home wouldn't last long. Not to mention resisting would give Voldemort an excuse.
It was becoming clear that, for reasons not entirely known, the Dark Lord wanted Harry removed. Harry had no shortage of enemies, and so few allies that you could fit them around a table.
The door opened. In came Neville, holding a box.
"Were you expecting a delivery?" he asked. He tested the weight against his palms. "It's heavy."
Fang shot up. The dog's fur bristled as it barked and howled, his nose twitching.
"Drop it!" Harry said.
It wasn't unheard of for animals to react to dark magic. Kneazles were reliable warning systems against curses, while dogs could be whipped into a frenzy from the smell of a potent curse.
Neville reacted, pulling his hand out from under the box. When it hit the floor, the top came off.
This time, Susan did throw up.
Neville staggered back. Hannah cried out, followed by tears. Narcissa clicked her tongue. Harry and Fleur… just looked.
At the severed head of Penelope Clearwater.
Harry nodded at Dobby. The elf left him to clean up Susan's vomit, rubbing the girls back while he did so. Narcissa walked over and bent down, examining the side of the box.
"There's a note," she said. "It's written in red. Blood, most likely."
Susan made a noise that suggested she was going to lose her breakfast, to go along with her lunch. Hannah held her best friend, soothing Susan while crying herself.
"What does it say, Narcissa?" Harry asked.
Narcissa moved her head right to left, studying the words. "Quite the scrawling handwriting they have. Honestly, the way they write their letters is an atrocity all on its own—"
Harry moved his wand, closing the box and blocking the view of Penelope's face. "What does it say, Narcissa?"
"I was getting there. I believe it says, 'Caught one.'"
It was Harry's turn to squeeze Fleur's hand. Fleur was… supportive. He could see she was mad, but she was keeping it in. Until she had something to burn, she'd let her fire smoulder.
"Hannah," Harry said softly. "When you relocated Penny, did you bring anyone with her?"
Hannah separated from Susan. The redhead left the room, Dobby taking her upstairs. The house elf cast a look back at the box on his way out, his floppy ears hanging down.
"I took her north to Newcastle," Hannah said. "My family had some properties up there. It was in the middle of the Muggle city. It— I… Only Penny was at that one." Hannah hesitated. "But if they found one of the slaves we hid—"
"It's Crouch," Neville said. He looked different than Harry had seen him. Always, Neville had seemed a gentle man. Right now, he looked ready to kill with his bare fingers. "It must be."
"This was him," Harry said. "He warned me he would come for those around me. I thought he meant you."
"You couldn't have known," Fleur said, but it rang hollow.
"I should have known," Harry said. "I should have seen he would do this."
"And what would we have done instead? Crammed slaves and orphans into your bedrooms until we ran out of food in the kitchen?" Narcissa said. "We cannot babysit each slave we free."
"Must you speak like that?" Fleur snapped.
"No. She's not wrong," Hannah said. She was looking at the box, as if she could see straight through the wood. "This is my fault. I didn't hide her well enough. Next time! Next time…"
It was taking her a lot of effort to keep it together. She wasn't used to death, not the way that Harry was. Neville came closer and gave her his shoulder to lean on. Standing up, Harry took the box from the floor, walking to the door.
"And where are you off to now?" Narcissa asked.
"I'm going to bury it. She would deserve that much, I think."
It made everything seem hollow. She'd been free for a matter of days. Stealing her out of Lestrange's clutches had only thrust her in front of Crouch's wand.
If Harry thought about it too hard, it made everything they were doing seem useless. So he lowered his head and took the box outside, to give a girl a burial.
Fleur came with him. They didn't speak. By now, they had reached a point where they didn't have to. The two of them dug with their wands, on a plot near the edge of a makeshift graveyard, already filled with the inhabitants of Godric's Hollow. Clumsy tombstones marked each grave. When the box was buried, Harry transfigured a new one from nearby dirt. On it he etched, Penelope Clearwater. He didn't put anything else. Her name was all he'd known about the girl. To add more would have felt like lies.
Her name would persist at least. As would the names of every villager who lost their lives in a madman's quest against Harry. At least until Harry, as the one who transfigured each headstone, finally died.
That seemed fitting. When his little war ended, the deaths would become history, a footnote to be put on the pages of future textbooks, added in with the multitude more caused by Voldemort's reign. If books were even written about this. When he thought about Britain's future, Harry was starting to struggle to see one.
"Let's go inside," Harry said.
Fleur stopped him when he limped past her, placing her hand on his shoulder.
"We have a guest," she said.
Walking the front path was Blaise Zabini.
He waved.
O-O-O
"It's a lovely home you have here. Half the size of mine, but there's something to be said for quaint charms. I like your hamlet. It's a shame it's empty now."
Harry watched Blaise sip off a mug of coffee, offered complimentarily by Dobby. Blaise made a noise in the back of his throat and hoisted the cup. "Your elf is excellent as well. It's like he learned to brew in Italy."
"Was there a reason for this visit?"
Blaise lowered the mug, unperturbed, and bounced it softly on his knee. "You sound tense."
"I've had a long day."
"The walls closing in?" Blaise sounded sympathetic. "Enemies mounting on all sides? Too many to count? Running out of directions to turn, perhaps?"
They were at opposite ends of Harry's dinner table. Beneath the surface, Harry's wand left its pocket.
"You needn't glare at me. I'm not judging." Blaise took another sip of coffee. "It's nothing to be ashamed of in my book. Sometimes, the world can be a lot. I'm here to tell you that you're doing a great job."
"Thank you," Harry said, his voice as barren as unwatered soil. "And what are you really here for?"
Blaise finished his drink, looked sadly at the empty mug, placed it on the table, and braced his elbows against the wood. He smiled at Harry. "I just told you. Keep doing what you're doing. All you need to do is keep holding out, for as long as you can."
Harry expected Blaise's arrival might spell trouble. He didn't predict it would be so… cryptic. To this point, Blaise had been his most straightforward partner. Harry helped him seize control of the Emporium, and in return Blaise ended the slaving business. It was a neat transaction. Exactly the kind you wanted when dealing with merchants.
This house call — for what seemed to be a pep talk, no less — muddied the waters significantly.
"What do you want from me?" Harry asked.
"Nothing but what you want for yourself. You're trying to dismantle the system, no? It's the only reason Yaxley and Crouch would hate you to such a degree. Those benefiting from how things are, always fight the hardest against change."
"And what about you?" Harry's eyes were sharp. "You're in prime position to inherit Britain's largest business. It seems to me that change would hit you as hard as anyone."
"Mm. Fair enough. I can see how you got to that conclusion." Blaise nodded, no sign of anger of fear on his face. "Let me suggest a different idea. I am rich. Extremely rich, in fact. So rich that I can go anywhere, do anything, and my life will be excellent."
"How fortunate."
"Isn't it just?" Blaise tapped the table, smiling. "In that case, what do you live for?"
"Pleasure?" Harry suggested.
It came out slightly terse. He was frustrated by the roundabout direction this conversation was taking.
"Decent guess. Wrong, though. I can buy pleasure a thousand times over— it's quite cheap, all things considered. I care about truly expensive things. Among those is pride. I don't care about Pettigrew's Emporium for its measly profits. I want to stand at the top of the pile… and look down on Nott while I'm at it. That rat bastard has always irritated my sensibilities. If you can believe it, he thinks us equals."
"So you don't fear change because you have nothing to truly lose. Is that what you're suggesting?"
Blaise chuckled. He tapped his fingers on the table slightly harder, harder, harder! The bang of his whole fist nearly made Harry curse him.
"They stepped on my pride." Blaise's voice was deceptively light. "They keep me around for my money, badmouthing my family the entire time. Rats like Nott think they mean something because of what their greatest grandaddy did. I will tell you a secret, Harry, to which you're probably already privy. Do you know what you call a pureblood without money?" Blaise grinned. "A poor bastard. And everyone is poor compared to me. So what do you think I call them when they still strut around, maligning my mother in front of my face?"
"Cunts?"
"Targets. But that, too."
Laughing, Blaise stood up. He gave the empty mug another appreciative look. When he started to leave, Harry stopped him, speaking to Blaise without turning his head, only looking at him from the corner of his eye. "Did you come here just to share that?"
"Consider that an explanation," Blaise said. "The real message was to hang on and keep fighting. Oh, and there was another part."
He waited to see if Harry would ask, but got no engagement, so filled his own silence.
"The world is very big, Harry. Remember not to lose sight of that. And make sure to tell your elf the coffee was excellent."
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