The weather that night was genuinely lovely.
After dinner, Daphne and I simply sat on the roof, on a bench, partially shielded from any passing eyes by both shrubbery and magic. With the same magic I conjured a small lamp and set it behind us — darkness is all well and good, but only at the right time and in the right place.
We simply sat together, arms around each other, talking about small things, about what we'd seen in Rome, about this and that.
"Your parents are remarkably understanding," Daphne opened a new thread of conversation. "They took so much of it... so easily."
"Life has thrown problems and extraordinary world-altering events at them again and again. I think," I put my arm around her, "they've simply grown tired of being surprised by things."
"Perhaps."
The noise of the city at night created a rather strange and somewhat unfamiliar atmosphere — for even if I came from an ordinary family, I'd spent the greater part of my conscious life at Hogwarts, where the sounds of night are essentially nonexistent as a phenomenon.
"Is something bothering you?" I asked, and not without reason.
Daphne settled more comfortably, resting her head on my shoulder, a faint flush rising in her cheeks. Dropping the mask in front of people close to you is one thing; this sort of open affection is quite another. Hm — I wasn't certain, but I had the distinct impression my ears were warm. Charming — certain psychological and physiological nuances are simply impossible to control. Or perhaps I can't manage them; that's also possible. And is there even any need to?
"A little," Daphne said quietly. "I've always tried not to clash with my parents, after all. And this was quite a manoeuvre. I'm not worried about whether it was the right thing to do. I'm just anxious about what Mum and my little sister will have worked themselves up to imagining."
"You do have a way to contact them, though."
"Out of spite, I'm waiting for Mum to contact me first," Daphne smiled.
"Hm... I do think you should let your mother know you're all right, all the same."
"You think?" Daphne tilted her head slightly to look at me.
"Yes. We made our position quite clear to your father. As for your mother... she was your age once too. She knows and understands. People say men can't understand women and women can't understand men. Your mother struck me as quite perceptive — a flexible mind, and not particularly opposed to my existence."
"That's true. She's the one who always taught me to use my head and keep myself in check. No prejudices, no subjectivity, none of that. You're right, I'll write to her now."
Daphne reached into her small bag and drew out a neat blue notebook with a quill. Opening it, she wrote a couple of lines without hesitation — something to the effect of: Hello Mum, I'm perfectly well, safe and sound. Not quite that brief, but that was the substance of it. She wrote and waited for a reply.
"I was, incidentally, the smallest amount surprised..."
"You mean last night?"
"Yes."
"You know, Pansy once said that we — you and I — keep ourselves far too well controlled and hold each other's opinions in far too high regard..."
"That's probably fair."
"Exactly. She said that if neither of us made a slightly selfish, decisive, confident move, the circumstances might simply never come together on their own."
"You won't believe it, but I'd had similar thoughts on the subject myself."
Text began to appear in Daphne's notebook. Out of politeness I had no intention of reading it, but Daphne was holding the notebook quite deliberately at an angle where we could both see. The message from Daphne's mother was neither short nor long. In essence: I'm glad you're well, darling. Don't let yourself get too carried away, keep your head, and try not to make me a grandmother — I'm far too young for that.
Flushing, Daphne closed the notebook and tucked it back into her bag.
"It seems," I said, smiling, "your mother is genuinely not opposed to... us."
"I told you. 'Don't make me a grandmother'... honestly, the things she comes up with."
After sitting a little longer, we headed back to my room. When we reached the corridor, however, I noticed Hermione doing something near the door. Gesturing to Daphne to stay quiet and silencing our footsteps as we went, I led her toward my door.
Hermione was far too absorbed to notice us, which allowed us to position ourselves against the opposite wall, literally a couple of steps away, and stand watching, waiting to see... whatever might happen. My sister appeared to be attempting to crack the silencing charms, which I found rather thoroughly entertaining. Another attempt failed; Hermione puffed up with frustration — but the failure prompted her to pay more attention to her surroundings, and she noticed us.
"Oh!" Hermione made an awkward attempt to conceal her wand and generally affect an air of nothing whatsoever going on and her just happening to be passing through. "I was just... here. That's all. Where have you two been?"
The sister's standard tactic — go on the offensive.
"Out for a walk," I smiled, while Daphne remained exactly as she had been, holding my hand and leaning slightly against me. "But what magic you're performing out here is a considerably more interesting question. Don't tell me you were trying to eavesdrop on us? Or perhaps even have a look?"
"Don't be absurd," Hermione waved it off, readjusting her grip on her book and disc player, going rather red in the process. "You think far too little of me. And what could there possibly be worth seeing?"
"Oh, but I did mention," Daphne smiled, "that your brother is a remarkably talented wizard?"
"Right, that's enough!" Hermione put her hands up in a defensive gesture. "I have absolutely no interest in what you get up to in there or how. I merely wanted to make sure you wouldn't wake the entire hotel in the process."
"That's very noble of you, Hermione," I smiled. "Since you trust my abilities so little, feel free to check in whenever the mood takes you. Daphne and I will do our best to give you cause as often as possible."
"Hector has absolutely no sense of moderation when it comes to magic," Daphne shook her head gravely.
"Goodnight-goodnight-goodnight!" Hermione rattled off rapidly, and disappeared into her room with equal speed.
I glanced at Daphne — slightly flushed, but maintaining a carefully mock-solemn expression — and opened the door to my room, letting her through first. The moment we were inside and the door closed behind us, Daphne abandoned any pretence of restraint whatsoever and wound her arms around my neck, smiling quite shamelessly.
"You have no idea," she said quietly, lips almost brushing mine, "how glad I am that my mother taught me to control myself and my impulses."
"As I can see," I smiled back, drawing her closer, "you're choosing to disregard that teaching entirely at this particular moment."
"Completely. Do you think Hermione will crack the silencing charm?"
"Possibly."
Daphne's eyes practically lit up.
"I'm absolutely mortified."
Daphne pressed her lips to mine. Even I felt something resembling shame right now — and letting go of myself, I was met with a thermonuclear cocktail of sensation. As one acquaintance of mine might have put it: there was a lad, and then there wasn't.
. . . . .
Number Twelve, Grimmauld Place, well known in certain narrow circles, was full of people. Some were drowsy, some had been practically dragged from their beds, and some hadn't yet gone to sleep at all. Everyone had gathered in the largest sitting room around a round table. Seating, as always, was insufficient for the numbers present, and many were forced to crowd into corners, stand beside their fellows, or find whatever space they could. Presiding over the gathering, as always, was Albus Dumbledore himself.
Tired and, like many present, short on sleep, Dumbledore sat at the table, casting a languid eye over those assembled, trying to satisfy himself that everyone was ready. The knock of a staff against the floor pulled him from his thoughts.
"Albus," said Moody's voice — he had, on this occasion, taken a seat at the table — cutting through the quiet noise and murmur of the gathered witches and wizards. "Shall we get started? Everyone's here. What's this all about, calling us together at such short notice?"
"Yes, you're right, Alastor, I was lost in thought," Dumbledore rose from his seat out of pure habit from hundreds of sessions at the Wizengamot and the ICW, then caught himself, waved it off, and sat back down. "I haven't called you all here without reason, though I don't fully understand the reason myself yet. Severus, if you would."
Severus Snape stepped out of the shadows where he customarily liked to lurk. The same black robes as ever, the same impassive face, the same severe gaze of dark eyes.
"I have most disagreeable news for everyone."
"The inspector's coming to town?" Tonks attempted a joke with a smile, but finding no support from the assembled company, changed her hair colour to pale grey. "Sorry."
"Your knowledge of classic works and productions is commendable, Miss Tonks," Snape observed acidly, "however entirely inappropriate at the present moment. The Dark Lord has destroyed the home of the Minister for Magic, together with the Minister himself. The Ministry has already been seized from within by agents."
A wave of noise and exclamation immediately swept the sitting room — the witches and wizards were outraged, alarmed, and frightened, while some directed dark looks toward Snape. Or suspicious ones — Moody, for instance.
"Quiet," Dumbledore's raised voice silenced everyone.
"Just like that? No preparation?" Alastor fixed Snape with a suspicious stare, leaning forward across the table.
"I have said before that the Dark Lord has returned to using personal assignments that no one else knows anything about. What I know, I tell you. What is not known to me, I am unable to say, for obvious reasons, Alastor."
"I don't believe you."
"Nor do I," Sirius nodded, adjusting his thick dark-brown jacket. "A Death Eater is a Death Eater."
"The question of your trust, Black," Snape looked at him without any excess of emotion, "concerns me least of all — as does your opinion, and everything else connected to you."
"What about the Ministry?" The deep bass of Shacklebolt, a dark-skinned wizard and one of the finest active Aurors in England, carried across the sitting room. "It's the middle of the night. No reports have come in. And what exactly is there to seize at the Ministry at this hour? The fountains? Without the wizards who actually work there, it serves no purpose."
"Seizing control of a couple of departments is sufficient," Dumbledore shook his head, looking deeply thoughtful. "Control of the Floo Network Authority alone would be enough to paralyse a great many people. And I have long said that such centralisation would come to no good."
"That's not the point right now, Albus," Moody swept the room with his magical eye. "How did it happen, Snape?"
"Two hours ago the Dark Lord assembled us all at yet another new location. He selected those who would go with him, and told the rest that they knew what to do. I was among those he chose. We moved to the Minister's home. There, to my surprise, Barty Crouch was waiting for us."
"Is it so strange that the Minister was at his own home?" Tonks didn't follow — nor did anyone else.
"Junior," Snape added, prompting a wave of surprise. "Omitting unnecessary details — it emerged that Minister Crouch, or rather the former Minister, had never left his son in Azkaban. He had removed him from there long ago and been keeping him at home under the Imperius Curse."
Another wave of startled exclamations rolled through the sitting room, then quickly subsided.
"His condition was poor, and I do not know precisely how he freed himself and got out. But it was he who helped break the protective enchantments on the house without any great explosions or commotion, gained entry, and killed his own father."
"But why does no one know anything?" Sirius asked, puzzled. "Surely Voldemort wouldn't have left such a significant event without... special effects."
"He forbade the use of the Dark Mark in the interests of secrecy," Snape explained. "Once that matter was concluded, we followed the Dark Lord to a new location. No one was permitted to disperse..."
"He trusts no one, as before," Dumbledore said with an understanding nod.
"...and after some time the others began arriving, reporting to the Dark Lord personally on their successes under strong privacy charms. When everyone had returned, the Dark Lord announced the results, distributed personal assignments, and only then did I have any opportunity to act."
"And so we are all here," Dumbledore said, "having come as quickly as possible."
"We need to get Harry," Sirius said immediately, beginning to stir, but was stopped by a gesture from Dumbledore.
"He's already here. Severus conveyed in a single phrase that the situation had become critical, so I simply went to his aunt and uncle's house without a word of discussion, took him, and brought him here. The boy is asleep."
"What do we do now?" Tonks looked from one wizard to another, but no one had an answer — even before tonight, precious little had been accomplished, and that was with the names of all the Dark Lord's significant supporters already known.
"First," Shacklebolt took the floor, folding his hands on the table, "we need to get all our people out of the Ministry. Warn them that tomorrow there's a perfectly sound reason not to come into work."
"Agreed..." came the voices, in varying tones of assent.
"Wouldn't it be better to leave them?" Tonks didn't see the problem, drawing looks from the others. "What? Pull out only the Muggle-borns and half-bloods — like me. Especially from any posts of even modest significance. And leave the pure-bloods in place."
"If I may say a word or two, esteemed colleagues," interjected a short, somewhat portly wizard — Fletcher. "The Auror has a point. The Dark Lord won't touch the pure-bloods right now — that's the very essence of his movement. He needs to demonstrate to his own people that pure-bloods are untouchable. The purging of undesirables from the ranks can come later, once things settle down."
"There's genuine sense in that," Dumbledore nodded. "So it shall be."
"But what do we do after that?"
"After?" Dumbledore looked around at them all. "For now, we can only respond to the Dark Lord's actions. Neither we nor the Auror Office with the MLE have managed to capture any of his supporters of any real significance. We have been unable to locate his headquarters."
"Because there is no headquarters," Snape added. "Everyone was divided into small groups and based wherever they chose, coming when summoned by the Dark Lord."
"You could have led us to your own group, then," someone muttered discontentedly from the back.
"I see no need to explain the complete shortsightedness of such an action. Besides, my group consisted solely of those who required potions, or those who sourced ingredients. Of all of us, I alone bore the Mark — does it really require explanation just how significant those wretches were to the Dark Lord, and how thoroughly I would have compromised myself with such a pointless gesture?"
"Precisely," Dumbledore nodded. "Severus is already doing everything he can."
"Is he?" Moody said, with a grim smile.
"Enough of these fruitless arguments," Dumbledore once again found it necessary to put a stop to the disorder before it had properly begun. "What we all need now is to pay the closest possible attention to every decision and action of the Dark Lord. In order to act with any degree of effectiveness at all. Are there any constructive proposals?"
The meeting continued for another hour or so, but no one managed to arrive at any concrete plan. Dumbledore remained in the house, as did several others. He sat in the same sitting room, not having risen from his seat. He sat and thought about how to bring one disagreeable prophecy to fruition, in light of the recently uncovered and confirmed information about the Dark Lord's immortality — or rather, its source. If Tom were only weaker... one could teach Harry Fiendfyre, capture Tom, and simply ask Harry to do a kind deed. True, that would make Harry an executioner, but it would all be for the Greater Good, would it not?
Other options? Given that Tom's immortality resided not in Horcruxes but in himself, every plan and theory had ceased to make sense, and only the prophecy remained. And what good was that? In any direct confrontation, Harry was not capable — not now, and not in the years immediately ahead. Many long years. And there was no guarantee he ever would be.
And so Dumbledore sat, and thought about what was to be done, and what came next.
---------------
Give me Powerstones if you like the story.
If you want to read 60+ advance chapters, you can do so on my Patreon.
Patreon(.)com/TheRedSpell