I am Lily Evans, 20 years old, born September 14th, 1966 . These are my memoirs and my confessions. Now that I read them, they feel like records of a dream. I might think it was all a dream, except this box is real. I hope that it is never opened, because if it has been terrible things are happening. Still, if you are reading this, you must be related to me. I at least owe you an explanation, and I owe the world the truth, even if I never intend to stop lying. It exists here in these parchments, and may I be forgiven.
I know that what comes next is unbelievable, because it is a story that has been lost even to masters of lore. But I swear that it's true. All of this is true.
Here the writing ended, barely taking up a fourth of the parchment. Still, Harry had read it over three times before he brought himself to put it aside and reach into the box for the next page. He found three or four pieces of notebook paper instead, each sheaf folded crosswise and nestled inside one another. Harry opened the entire thing carefully, almost reverently, and began with its innermost page, which was college ruled and covered in blue pen. The handwriting here was messier, shakier; and Lily had dated it nearly half a year earlier. He moved across the floor to lean against his bed and began to read.
Deirdre was once dear to Le Fey. As children they played together and as women they walked together. One of the many wars of that period drove Deirdre to flee to Ireland, her father's homeland. It was during their separation that Le Fey's tutelage under Merlin reached its peak, and later twisted into darkness. As she spiraled farther downwards, Le Fey began to experiment with the very essence of a human: their soul. After betraying Merlin, she began her work in earnest, creating minor spells that would serve as the building blocks of The Summoning.
Deirdre dwelt ten years in Ireland, earning some fame as a healer and sorceress. Shortly before Le Fey completed The Summoning, Deirdre returned to England and sought out her old friend. Le Fey welcomed her with open arms. How much of her warm reception was truth shall never be known, but it is said that in the year after Deirdre's return the cauldrons of the dark sorceress were still and the terror of her shadow over the lands was diminished.
Perhaps Le Fey hid the full extent of her corruption from Deirdre, or Deirdre was willfully blind, but it is most likely that Deirdre was determined to save her friend. In any case, she dwelled long with Le Fey. The words they exchanged in the dark of long nights are lost forever, but what was said (or not said) resulted in a terrible battle in Le Fey's stronghold at year's end. Deirdre barely escaped with her life.
Morgana Le Fey was beyond help after that. She finished The Summoning of the Forever Hollow, a spell that would consume the soul, life, and body of a man and bring the hungry, empty shell that remained under her command. She wrote this abomination in Nyormansi, the language of serpents that were once familiar to the most powerful witches and wizards. They have long since been forgotten. Le Fey was consumed with hatred for Deirdre and vowed revenge. For what? Only she knows. Her agents, spread wider and rooted deeper than any would have guessed, watched Deirdre in Ireland. They reported to Le Fey that she had a lover, Leannan, with whom she surely shared a soul. Le Fey ordered Leannan seized, and it was done.
Deirdre's search for Leannan was frantic. A message from Le Fey drew her deep into the Irish woods. In a clearing, Le Fey awaited her with Leannan pinned to a tree by her dark magic. Deirdre was held fast as well, unable to fight Le Fey's power. She watched in horror as Leannan was subjected to The Initiation and became the first Dementor. It was a sight that would have driven a lesser witch mad, but the soulless thing her love had become snapped something worse than her mind.
Deirdre possessed incredible strength of emotion. She felt so intensely that her happiness or anger became magic unto themselves. Her love for Leannan was deeper than could be fathomed. Her grief at his twisting into something beyond human recognition was a force that will never again be felt in this world. It broke the bonds that held her immobile and swept throughout the clearing, a terrible power that was all the tears and screams and pain in existence. It created a Whorl, known today as Deirdre's Grove. This time, it was Le Fey who barely escaped with her life.
Through Leannan, Le Fey created a host of Dementors, all under her control. Word of this new fear spread quickly throughout every kingdom. When some reported that the soulless numbered into the hundreds, Deirdre was shaken from a year of black despair. She went in secret to Nyoka, lord of the snakes, recalling that Le Fey had chanted words in Nyormansi. One who had mastered human language, Nyoka was reluctant to parley with a witch, especially a friend of Le Fey's. The serpents, too, had once been dear to Le Fey, and she to them. Especially at the height of her training under Merlin, she had had many dealings with them, soaking their ancient wisdom and learning their tongue. The sorceress was so cunning that only Nyoka had suspected her motives until Merlin himself alerted them to her corruption. Even then, loyal or evil snakes aided her until the day all word from Merlin ceased. Nyoka traced Vivien's treachery back to Le Fey, and she was declared their enemy forever.
But when Deirdre told Nyoka of Leannan, he took pity on her. The serpents paid little mind to the affairs of humans, but Nyoka agreed to help Deirdre, for Le Fey would use the Dementors to gain dominion over all the land. The snakes knew of a book which held every twisted spell Le Fey had ever used or created. The sorceress took great care of this tome, safeguarding it with all manner of charms. Its pages could not be ripped nor burned nor marked upon and their contents could be in no way undone. If, Deirdre decided, Le Fey's evil could not be annihilated, it could be at least lessened. She wanted to destroy The Summoning, which had ripped away all her life's joy. The Summoning, Nyoka told her, was surely Le Fey's most prized work and could not be destroyed. She might, however, be able to remove its text from the book and secret it away, so that least any who opened its pages could not perform it.
Deirdre was not satisfied. The Dementors' souls had to be restored. No, said Nyoka, their souls were lost forever; effaced from existence by their mistress Le Fey. Then, Deirdre insisted, at least Le Fey's sway over them could be broken. There was a way, but having grown fond of Deirdre, Nyoka was loathe to tell her how. It was not until she threatened to seek out Le Fey by herself that he relented. Ancient magic of the snakes could be employed to reverse (at least in part) even the most powerful of spells. Snakepower was nearly beyond mortal comprehension, but it could be done. Since The Initiation had been written by man, the countering spell had to be invoked by man; since it had been written in Nyormansi, the countering spell had to be invoked in Nyormansi.
But while Deirdre could read and write the language of snakes, she could not speak it: she was not a Parselmouth. Was there not another way? At this, Nyoka fell silent and refused to reply until Deirdre again threatened to face Le Fey alone, then swore an oath to show that she was in earnest. The serpents themselves could speak the words of power, he told her, but since they could not remove The Summoning and since they were not human, they would need all of her life's blood. Deirdre agreed. She had nothing left to live for.
After months of plotting, Deirdre slipped back to England and invaded Le Fey's fortress with the full power of the serpents behind her. They did not go undetected for long, but it mattered little to Deirdre. Aided by the snakes, she navigated Le Fey's labyrinth to the very heart of her stronghold, where the book was guarded by every trap and barrier devised by wizard or Muggle. It was a sight to behold, a hundred snakes of gold and red and black and emerald, slithering around the feet of one woman as together they forced their way into a small room. Behind them, Le Fey's agents and a score of Dementors were held only by Deirdre's own hasty barriers and a battle done with Nyoka's twenty most powerful serpents.
When they reached Le Fey's book, Deirdre opened it upon a stand and searched for The Summoning. Nyoka called from the room's entrance that there was no time to steal the entire spell. Deirdre read the Nyormansi and found a part crucial to the whole, an incantation not more than half a page long. This she isolated and this she lifted. She drew a dagger and slit her wrist as she chanted. She grew weaker and weaker until the final words of the spell were no more than a whisper and the force behind them took the last of her strength. She collapsed even as that section of The Summoning disappeared from the book to hover in her palm, a black, writhing mass. The hiss of Nyormansi filled the room as the snakes glided into her blood. As she lay fading, Deirdre begged Nyoka to guard the incantation. The serpent lord agreed, taking pity on her for the last time. Then Deirdre of Ireland cried out for Leannan and died.
Harry set the paper down. His eyes were moist.
Abner looked up as Ranone stepped out of the conference room, snatching up an envelope from his desk. He slowed when he saw her angry, tight expression and waited for her to reach him instead of meeting her halfway. "This came yesterday," he murmured when she drew level with his shoulder, making sure the postmark was visible. His employer did a double-take and took the envelope from him.
"Thanks," she said, ignoring his inquisitive eyebrow. She made to move forward, then stopped. She had not been able to organize a meeting with either of her conspirators for the entire week; this was her last chance. "Find out if Frank or Amanda Longbottom is in, will you?"
"Sure."
Ranone waited until Abner went back to his desk and invoked Interdepartmental Links before opening Harry's letter. She glanced once at her secretary as he began to speak to what she knew was the face of an IL wizard in the small glass on his desk, then lowered her eyes to the parchment.
Dear Laura,
I've done some reading on how the trial works. I need
to know what angle you're taking on Percy's case, what the prosecution's
strategy is (or what you think it is), and what kind of questions I'll
be getting during the cross-exam. I was knocked out, so they might
go after how good my memory is, or something.
Thanks,
Harry Potter
Laura felt her eyes narrow and her lips part, a sense of foreboding brewing in the back of her mind. She certainly had not expected this. Experience as an attorney told her that this was a good thing (intelligent and informed witnesses were rare), but this irked her. She read the letter over again. There was something in the wording...
"Laura?" She looked up at her secretary, quickly folding the parchment back up. It was not often that Abner had a slip of tongue and addressed her by her first name, despite her gentle insistence that he do so.
"Hm?" The odd look on his face prompted her to walk closer.
"Frank Longbottom isn't in, but Amanda is." Abner arched the eyebrow that never failed to remind Ranone of a prudent, competent butler. "IL had a time finding her. Apparently she's just been transferred to the Department of Mysteries."
Ranone blinked, throwing everything she had into schooling her expression and biting back an exclamation. "What's her office number?"
"312. Do you want me to glass her?" He reached to touch the thin, concave crystal he had just finished using.
"No, thanks, Abner." A corner of Harry Potter's letter was already near shreds as she rolled it hard between two fingers. She smiled at him before turning and going to her office door. "I'll be in here if you need me," she said through the crack before it shut behind her.
Percy was lying tightly curled on the couch, hands fisted and drawn to his chest. He looked so miserable that a whispered, "Oh God," slipped past Laura's lips. Even in sleep, the boy seemed to be recoiling from something. Ranone's glanced at the table. The water was gone, as was the orange and crackers. Percy's hair was damp and his skin was no longer dirty, only sickly. What an improvement, she thought bitterly. She crossed the room to her desk, on which she lay Harry's letter, and opened one of the lower drawers. A small handkerchief stuffed into the back corner became a full-size quilt as soon as she pulled it out. The attorney gathered it into her arms and walked back to Percy, who flinched when she spread the blanket over him and began tucking it in. "Shh," she said instinctively, feeling pity stab through her. He was so young. Laura smoothed his forehead with her thumb and stood back. Her client shifted but did not wake. There seemed to be one less furrow in his brow now.
She turned to the fireplace, then rolled her eyes in annoyance. Normally, she would have started it with lighter fluid and a match--she had gotten quite good at that--but there was no time. She went to the door and leaned out of it. "Abner?" Even with her secretary, she had to fight a twinge of embarrassment. "Could you start a fire in here, please?"
Abner cast the appropriate spell and left with an agreeable nod when she thanked him, tossing only one sympathetic glance at the sleeping Percy. Once he was gone, Laura reached into a jar by the fireplace and came out with a handful of glittering powder, which she tossed into the flames. "Department of Mysteries, 312."
The center of the fire seemed to swirl and then part before the face of a woman, hovering in the hearth. Amanda Longbottom had the round face her son had inherited, but not the blonde hair. Hers was light brown and worn loose past her shoulders. "Oh, Laura. Good afternoon." Even through the flames, her eyes seemed vaguely unfocused, as if following something no one else could see. Ranone knew from experience that Amanda's unnerving dreaminess was deceptive: there was a keen, sometimes maniacal focus that lurked just beneath the surface. It was a horrible force when brought to bear, once almost reducing Laura to stammering. Almost.
"Afternoon," she responded pleasantly, ignoring Amanda's odd demeanor. The woman was extremely well-adjusted for coming back from utter madness, and besides, Ranone tried not to dwell on that fact too much. It gave her the chills. "The paperwork for your insurance is done--I contacted the right people. It was just an honest mistake. I can explain it better to you in person, though, and there are a few things you might want to sign."
"I see." A long pause. There were always long pauses in conversation with Amanda. Laura had learned to wait them out. "My husband should be there, too. I'm sorry I haven't answered your messages earlier. My son--" and here, for less than a second, her eyes sharpened to hard, flashing points, "--had his birthday a few days ago."
Oh, my God. I think someone disagrees with Rosie about Neville coming to the meeting.
"Oh, of course. I understand," she replied, badly shaken. "I have time for a quick appointment today, though, if that's convenient." Immediately on the heel of those words Laura pointed her finger at herself and mouthed, "My place."
"Hm? Yes, that would be fine. But my husband really should be present...he's on break, you know, the Leaky Cauldron...I suppose I could find him there in a few minutes. Have to make sure he doesn't eat food that's too rich for him. He is so fond of..."
"Um, Mrs. Longbottom?"
"Oh, I'm sorry. The appointment. I'll be in touch with you about that, Laura. We'll see."
If their correspondences were being monitored--and Ranone knew that they were--no one would have found Amanda's divulgence of detail unusual. She was always like that; Laura only wondered how much of her distractedness was affected. She glanced at her watch. It was almost three. "All right. Thank you."
Amanda disappeared. Laura went to her desk, shrugged off her witch's robes, and grabbed her coat and purse. Percy was still asleep, so exhausted that Ranone was sure he would not wake for some time. She pressed her palm to his forehead again on a whim, then stopped and replaced it with her wrist. He had a fever.
Laura bit her lip and then walked out of the office, pausing only to leave Abner terse instructions: her client was sick, make him a hot drink, check in on him often, and treat him like glass until she returned. "And Abner, nobody goes into that room. I don't care if it's the Minister; unless they have the papers, nobody goes in."
****
I've copied Deirdre's story as best I can from memory as Nyoka told it. He had an old, odd way of talking so
No, that's getting ahead. Anyway, that's the very beginning. Centuries later, I, Lily Evans, graduated from Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry in June with the class of 1985. I was immediately recruited by Albus Dumbledore (the Headmaster) for the Order of the Phoenix. Almost a year later (I think April or May '86), James Potter, Remus Lupin, and Sirius Black also came in.
I am in love with James.
The Order of the Phoenix is a group of Aurors (and other people) commissioned by Dumbledore to resist Voldemort. We are small; too many in our ranks makes treachery and infiltration too easy (just look at the Ministry). We were 18 strong last I checked, but now I can't be sure. I've been here for at least twelve hours. (What the nurse said). It's night outside. I can see the lights outside. Some of them are cars. Apparently I was brought here unconscious. They didn't even know my name until I woke up to tell them.
How long was I out for? Where did they find me? I don't even know how long I stayed with Nyoka and his people. I don't know if any of the others died and they don't know I'm alive but
God, my head hurts. I'm so tired. I'll finish later.
That was the last Muggle page. There was a note written in the margin: University College Hospital, Galway, and the bottom third of it was blank but for one line scribbled diagonally across the rules.
James please live please live I love you please live
Harry sagged back against his bed, trailing his fingers over the lined paper. So this was his mother. Not the specter from Voldemort's wand, not the illusion in the Mirror of Erised; these words and this ink were Lily Evans. He raised his eyes as Hedwig flew in. His owl landed atop her cage and cocked her head at him. "This must have been before she married," said Harry. Hedwig raised up and ruffled her feathers, then began preening herself. Harry sighed and reached for the next parchment in the box, but heavy footsteps on the stairs made him freeze.
"HARRY!" Uncle Vernon's voice was like thunder. Harry swore and stuffed all the papers back in, slammed the box shut, and dove for the hole in his floor. He had just fit the loose board back in when the door flew open. Vernon's mustache was bushier than usual. Harry always thought that it was like a cat on his face: whenever there was cause for alarm, it would puff its fur out. All it needed to do was hiss.
"What?" he asked, quickly rising from his knee, then, "Hedwig!"
Vernon sputtered as the snowy owl zoomed by his face and batted at the air before him. Harry managed to calm her after a moment and put her in the cage. "Keep that damn bird locked up when you don't need it!" he blustered, coming farther into the room.
Harry turned from sliding the latch home. "Well, if you would knock--"
"This room is my room, boy, not yours! We allow you to occupy it out of the goodness of our hearts!"
Harry pressed his lips together hard but said nothing. Vernon regained enough composure to glare suspiciously at his nephew. "Now. One of Dudley's games has gone missing."
"One of his computer games?"
"That's right. You wouldn't have anything to do with it, eh?"
"No," he replied incredulously. "I've been in here all day!" It was all Harry could do to rein in his ire when his uncle let out a skeptical "Hmph." He spread his arms. "Search the room, if you like. I haven't got it."
Vernon's mustache was deflating. His eyes darted about the room suspiciously, then he shook a fat finger at Harry. "I warn you...!" And with that he stormed out.
Harry rolled his eyes skyward. "Bloody hell." Ron's phrase was rubbing off on him. He closed the door after his uncle a bit harder than necessary and turned to lean against it. "I'm going to go nuts, Hedwig," he grimaced after a moment, crossing to her cage and letting her back out. Hedwig fluttered onto his shoulder, adjusting the grip of her talons when Harry winced. "What do you think, hm?" he murmured as he stroked her. Hedwig gently nipped at his hair before settling back on top of her cage, leaving him to stare at the loose floorboard. Harry took a step towards it, then changed direction to the window when he heard the sound of the garage opening. He made it just in time to see Uncle Vernon's car pull out and speed off down Privet Drive. He grimaced. The horrid thing about Sunday at the Dursley's was that Vernon did not work. For a moment he considered owling Ron that night and asking if he couldn't stay at the Burrow before remembering: the last thing the Weasleys needed was to trouble over a guest. Even if they would not mind, Harry knew that Ron's was not the safest place to stay. His friend's letters had been sporadic and terse. He could set his clock by the ones from Hermione, though. He expected an owl from her around eleven tonight. But nothing from Laura or Sirius yet.
A second car came into Harry's vision. He started. It was turning into Mrs. Figg's driveway. As he watched, the driver got out and opened the door for a small, bird-like old lady, then went around to the trunk and lugged out a suitcase. Arabella Figg, back from her vacation on account of arthritis. Harry gaped. She was alive! He mentally wrung his hands for a moment, then turned and ran downstairs. The kitchen and living room were empty. A note on the refrigerator drew his attention.
Out shopping.
Aunt P.
Harry's lip curled in disgust. That was another expression he had never worn until after fifth year, and he was not even aware of it. The jaded sneer was brief but went deep. Odd, I didn't hear Dudley wailing for his damn game. They must have decided to buy a new one before having to listen to it. He reached to snatch the paper from the refrigerator and throw it out, but something stayed his hand. It was signed by Aunt Petunia, who perhaps abhorred Harry more than Vernon did, and the Dursleys never bothered to leave him notes about anything. Harry's brow furrowed, but that lasted only a moment before he ran back into the foyer to the cupboard under the stairs, where he picked the lock and retrieved his invisibility cloak.
Nobody saw the front door that opened and closed without a person passing through it. Harry ran as quickly as he could beneath the cloak up the driveway, across the street and into Mrs. Figg's drive. The witch was greeting about a dozen cats at her feet and handing the driver a few pounds at the same time. "Thank you, young man. Ohh, darling! Yes, yes, I've missed you, yes I have," picking up a feline. "Have you met Dandruff?" The poor man took a step back as Dandruff, pinkish and fat, was practically thrust into his face.
Harry wondered distantly who had cared for her precious pets while she had been away. The summer sun was already starting to become uncomfortable. He looked about helplessly before noticing that the door to the house was ajar. Two or three cats lifted their noses to the air and sniffed in his direction as he slipped past them, watching the adults carefully. He made himself as flat as he could and squeezed in through the door.
The air-conditioning was a welcome relief. Harry looked around at the familiar living room. There was the rocking chair, next to the shelf with albums upon albums of cats. His neighbor's house looked the same as ever, but something seemed out of sync. Harry narrowed his eyes before it struck him: nothing had collected dust. In fact, the entire space looked very lived-in, including the half-empty cup of tea on the table by the rocker.
"Meow." Harry jumped as a black cat brushed against his legs. "Go away," he hissed, nudging it as gently as he could with his foot. He was afraid that his experiences with Mrs. Norris had ingrained a deep dislike of cats in him, but perhaps it was Figg who had truly planted the seeds. He looked up sharply when he heard footsteps--many of them--on the porch outside and retreated into a corner, still hiding beneath the cloak. A dozen cats preceded Figg as she pushed the door wide and stepped over the threshold, suitcase in hand. She set this down by her coat rack and brushed herself off.
She did not look much changed from when he had last seen her in the Alps, observed Harry; perhaps a bit thinner. The sharp intensity he had always mistaken for bedlam before fifth year was still in her face. He waited until she had waved her wand and replenished her cats' food and water in the kitchen before letting the cloak slide off. "Hello, Mrs. Figg."
In the next moment he was jerked off his feet, slammed back, and pinned very uncomfortably against the wall a meter above the carpet. Mistake number one: he had forgotten Arabella Figg was an Auror. Mistake number two: he had startled her, badly. Harry gasped and tried to move but found that his limbs might as well have been nailed to the wall. "Hey!" he gasped, staring down at the little woman who held him immobile with her wand. "It's me!"
"Harry Potter! What in the name of Merlin do you think you're doing?!" Figg shrilled, reminding Harry of Molly Weasley's Howler to Ron in second year, but ten times as frightening, especially when she brandished her wand and pressed him so hard against the wall Harry felt he was being flattened by a truck. Shock turned to real fear, so strong that it kicked an instinct Harry had only felt once, when he had accidentally inflated Aunt Marge to the size of a parade float. Something in him lashed out so unexpectedly that he saw white for a moment. Figg's wand jerked like a wild thing in her hand. She struggled with it briefly before it won out and dragged her aim elsewhere. Harry dropped to the floor with a thump.
"Meow." The same black cat, pawing at his shoulder. Harry pushed it away and stood up. Figg was staring at him oddly. "Look, I'm sorry--"
"I ought to skin you," she cut him off, glaring. Harry noticed she had tucked her wand away. That at least was encouraging. "Well, come on. Have some tea."
Her voice had to compete with the pounding in his ears. Harry followed her into the kitchen after a moment, shaken and dazed, nearly tripping over yet another cat on the way. He watched her as she set a pot of water to boil on the stove. Mrs. Figg raised an eyebrow at Harry, guessing his thoughts. "When we use magic to conjure a cup of tea, we miss the pleasure of waiting for it. Many things are like that." Harry blinked, startled when she met his gaze.
"H-how long have you been back?" he stammered.
Figg fixed him with a look. "A week now," she replied at last. A little weariness showed in her paper-thin hands as they reached for two cups and saucers. "I had to get some rest before arranging for that farçe outside."
"What's going on?" he burst out eagerly. "Is everything all right?"
Figg summoned Harry's cloak from where it lay in the other room. It smacked him full upside the head. "Where are those horrid relatives of yours?" she questioned, leaning out the window that faced the Dursleys's house as Harry sputtered and tried to disentangle himself.
"Out," he answered with a bit of a glare. "Why aren't you in Ireland?"
"Because I don't need to be, Harry," she said pointedly. "I should be the one asking you what you think you're doing, sneaking into other people's houses. You're lucky I didn't stun you--Aurors don't take kindly to people appearing out of the air in their homes."
Harry rubbed the back of his head, where he was sure a bruise was forming. "Sorry," he mumbled. He decided to wait in silence until the kettle whistled and Figg began filling their cups. "So...are the others home, too?" he hazarded when she dropped the tea bags in and handed him his cup.
"If you're asking about your godfather, yes. He's safe and sound."
That was all Harry needed to hear. He must be getting a return letter soon, then. "So what's going on?" he repeated, leaning back against the counter and taking a polite sip of his tea. He didn't know why the witch was drinking hot water in the middle of June, but it was an eccentricity suffered much more easily than endless photographs of cats. "I know about the Summoning," he added a bit impatiently, mainly to cover the unease Figg's gaze caused. "Why aren't you still watching out for Vold--him?"
Mrs. Figg's eyes flashed angrily. Her voice was like a bucket of ice water tossed into Harry's face. "Perhaps you would like to single-handedly maintain vigil over all of Ireland for a month, Harry Potter."
Harry felt his neck flush. "I...I didn't mean--"
Figg sighed and put her cup down. "I'm sorry," she said tightly. "I know you didn't." She eyed him. "Voldemort is not an immediate threat right now."
Harry choked. "What do you mean?" he demanded after suffering a mild coughing fit.
"Exactly what I say."
"You mean the Summoning isn't going to work, or what?"
Arabella Figg studied him for a moment before taking his tea from him. "I can't say more. We're not giving up, that's all you need to know. Now, go back to your--"
"No, that's not!" he snapped, shaking off her hand on his elbow a bit recklessly. "Listen. I can't just sit in my room all summer and wait for Percy's trial. I can't! At least tell me what's happening out there. Tell me something I can do."
"You," said Figg firmly, "can stay out of trouble." A cat jumped up onto the counter and rubbed against her shoulder, purring. She brought her hand up to stroke it as her face softened. "Focus on that trial, Harry. This war is being fought on many fronts. We need to win the Ministry before Voldemort does. He has other avenues besides Dementors." Harry shuddered involuntarily.
"Fine," he lied. "Then what about Ron?" Figg looked troubled for a moment. Harry pressed harder. "Dumbledore, he said he didn't think Fudge wanted them dead. He said there might be some third group. Is that true?"
The Auror hesitated. "Most likely. We know very little. The Longbottoms are our seeds in the Ministry, and they are only two. What they've reported back to us..." She shook her head, looking suddenly frustrated. "Nothing. After they discovered plans on Weasley's life, they still couldn't find the parties involved. They didn't even make a move after the children were brought out."
Harry narrowed his eyes. "Wait. You mean the coast's not clear?" He mistook her silence for confusion. "I mean, why were they brought out if you never stopped the assassins?"
Figg's face was suddenly inscrutable. A very unpleasant thought began to take hold in Harry's mind. Finally, the witch set down her tea and looked him in the eye. "I won't insult your intelligence, Harry."
"Bait," he breathed, so angry that it made his voice weak. "They were bait."
"Go home, Harry," said Mrs. Figg. Before he could react she stepped back and pointed her wand at him. The next thing Harry knew, he was standing in the middle of Privet Drive, holding his invisibility cloak and desperately wanting to smash something.
Harry Potter
Laura felt her eyes narrow and her lips part, a sense of foreboding brewing in the back of her mind. She certainly had not expected this. Experience as an attorney told her that this was a good thing (intelligent and informed witnesses were rare), but this irked her. She read the letter over again. There was something in the wording...
"Laura?" She looked up at her secretary, quickly folding the parchment back up. It was not often that Abner had a slip of tongue and addressed her by her first name, despite her gentle insistence that he do so.
"Hm?" The odd look on his face prompted her to walk closer.
"Frank Longbottom isn't in, but Amanda is." Abner arched the eyebrow that never failed to remind Ranone of a prudent, competent butler. "IL had a time finding her. Apparently she's just been transferred to the Department of Mysteries."
Ranone blinked, throwing everything she had into schooling her expression and biting back an exclamation. "What's her office number?"
"312. Do you want me to glass her?" He reached to touch the thin, concave crystal he had just finished using.
"No, thanks, Abner." A corner of Harry Potter's letter was already near shreds as she rolled it hard between two fingers. She smiled at him before turning and going to her office door. "I'll be in here if you need me," she said through the crack before it shut behind her.
Percy was lying tightly curled on the couch, hands fisted and drawn to his chest. He looked so miserable that a whispered, "Oh God," slipped past Laura's lips. Even in sleep, the boy seemed to be recoiling from something. Ranone's glanced at the table. The water was gone, as was the orange and crackers. Percy's hair was damp and his skin was no longer dirty, only sickly. What an improvement, she thought bitterly. She crossed the room to her desk, on which she lay Harry's letter, and opened one of the lower drawers. A small handkerchief stuffed into the back corner became a full-size quilt as soon as she pulled it out. The attorney gathered it into her arms and walked back to Percy, who flinched when she spread the blanket over him and began tucking it in. "Shh," she said instinctively, feeling pity stab through her. He was so young. Laura smoothed his forehead with her thumb and stood back. Her client shifted but did not wake. There seemed to be one less furrow in his brow now.
She turned to the fireplace, then rolled her eyes in annoyance. Normally, she would have started it with lighter fluid and a match--she had gotten quite good at that--but there was no time. She went to the door and leaned out of it. "Abner?" Even with her secretary, she had to fight a twinge of embarrassment. "Could you start a fire in here, please?"
Abner cast the appropriate spell and left with an agreeable nod when she thanked him, tossing only one sympathetic glance at the sleeping Percy. Once he was gone, Laura reached into a jar by the fireplace and came out with a handful of glittering powder, which she tossed into the flames. "Department of Mysteries, 312."
The center of the fire seemed to swirl and then part before the face of a woman, hovering in the hearth. Amanda Longbottom had the round face her son had inherited, but not the blonde hair. Hers was light brown and worn loose past her shoulders. "Oh, Laura. Good afternoon." Even through the flames, her eyes seemed vaguely unfocused, as if following something no one else could see. Ranone knew from experience that Amanda's unnerving dreaminess was deceptive: there was a keen, sometimes maniacal focus that lurked just beneath the surface. It was a horrible force when brought to bear, once almost reducing Laura to stammering. Almost.
"Afternoon," she responded pleasantly, ignoring Amanda's odd demeanor. The woman was extremely well-adjusted for coming back from utter madness, and besides, Ranone tried not to dwell on that fact too much. It gave her the chills. "The paperwork for your insurance is done--I contacted the right people. It was just an honest mistake. I can explain it better to you in person, though, and there are a few things you might want to sign."
"I see." A long pause. There were always long pauses in conversation with Amanda. Laura had learned to wait them out. "My husband should be there, too. I'm sorry I haven't answered your messages earlier. My son--" and here, for less than a second, her eyes sharpened to hard, flashing points, "--had his birthday a few days ago."
Oh, my God. I think someone disagrees with Rosie about Neville coming to the meeting.
"Oh, of course. I understand," she replied, badly shaken. "I have time for a quick appointment today, though, if that's convenient." Immediately on the heel of those words Laura pointed her finger at herself and mouthed, "My place."
"Hm? Yes, that would be fine. But my husband really should be present...he's on break, you know, the Leaky Cauldron...I suppose I could find him there in a few minutes. Have to make sure he doesn't eat food that's too rich for him. He is so fond of..."
"Um, Mrs. Longbottom?"
"Oh, I'm sorry. The appointment. I'll be in touch with you about that, Laura. We'll see."
If their correspondences were being monitored--and Ranone knew that they were--no one would have found Amanda's divulgence of detail unusual. She was always like that; Laura only wondered how much of her distractedness was affected. She glanced at her watch. It was almost three. "All right. Thank you."
Amanda disappeared. Laura went to her desk, shrugged off her witch's robes, and grabbed her coat and purse. Percy was still asleep, so exhausted that Ranone was sure he would not wake for some time. She pressed her palm to his forehead again on a whim, then stopped and replaced it with her wrist. He had a fever.
Laura bit her lip and then walked out of the office, pausing only to leave Abner terse instructions: her client was sick, make him a hot drink, check in on him often, and treat him like glass until she returned. "And Abner, nobody goes into that room. I don't care if it's the Minister; unless they have the papers, nobody goes in."
"Uh--Ms. Ranone."
She jerked her upper body back inside, one hand on the doorframe for balance. "What?"
Abner already had a steaming mug of what looked like butterbeer in his hands. "Where can I reach you?"
Ranone hesitated. "My cell." Her secretary glanced at the telephone on his desk, the first thing he had been trained to use on day one. "And only if somebody's dying." With that she whipped out.
She jerked her upper body back inside, one hand on the doorframe for balance. "What?"
Abner already had a steaming mug of what looked like butterbeer in his hands. "Where can I reach you?"
Ranone hesitated. "My cell." Her secretary glanced at the telephone on his desk, the first thing he had been trained to use on day one. "And only if somebody's dying." With that she whipped out.
****
I've copied Deirdre's story as best I can from memory as Nyoka told it. He had an old, odd way of talking so
No, that's getting ahead. Anyway, that's the very beginning. Centuries later, I, Lily Evans, graduated from Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry in June with the class of 1985. I was immediately recruited by Albus Dumbledore (the Headmaster) for the Order of the Phoenix. Almost a year later (I think April or May '86), James Potter, Remus Lupin, and Sirius Black also came in.
I am in love with James.
The Order of the Phoenix is a group of Aurors (and other people) commissioned by Dumbledore to resist Voldemort. We are small; too many in our ranks makes treachery and infiltration too easy (just look at the Ministry). We were 18 strong last I checked, but now I can't be sure. I've been here for at least twelve hours. (What the nurse said). It's night outside. I can see the lights outside. Some of them are cars. Apparently I was brought here unconscious. They didn't even know my name until I woke up to tell them.
How long was I out for? Where did they find me? I don't even know how long I stayed with Nyoka and his people. I don't know if any of the others died and they don't know I'm alive but
God, my head hurts. I'm so tired. I'll finish later.
That was the last Muggle page. There was a note written in the margin: University College Hospital, Galway, and the bottom third of it was blank but for one line scribbled diagonally across the rules.
James please live please live I love you please live
Harry sagged back against his bed, trailing his fingers over the lined paper. So this was his mother. Not the specter from Voldemort's wand, not the illusion in the Mirror of Erised; these words and this ink were Lily Evans. He raised his eyes as Hedwig flew in. His owl landed atop her cage and cocked her head at him. "This must have been before she married," said Harry. Hedwig raised up and ruffled her feathers, then began preening herself. Harry sighed and reached for the next parchment in the box, but heavy footsteps on the stairs made him freeze.
"HARRY!" Uncle Vernon's voice was like thunder. Harry swore and stuffed all the papers back in, slammed the box shut, and dove for the hole in his floor. He had just fit the loose board back in when the door flew open. Vernon's mustache was bushier than usual. Harry always thought that it was like a cat on his face: whenever there was cause for alarm, it would puff its fur out. All it needed to do was hiss.
"What?" he asked, quickly rising from his knee, then, "Hedwig!"
Vernon sputtered as the snowy owl zoomed by his face and batted at the air before him. Harry managed to calm her after a moment and put her in the cage. "Keep that damn bird locked up when you don't need it!" he blustered, coming farther into the room.
Harry turned from sliding the latch home. "Well, if you would knock--"
"This room is my room, boy, not yours! We allow you to occupy it out of the goodness of our hearts!"
Harry pressed his lips together hard but said nothing. Vernon regained enough composure to glare suspiciously at his nephew. "Now. One of Dudley's games has gone missing."
"One of his computer games?"
"That's right. You wouldn't have anything to do with it, eh?"
"No," he replied incredulously. "I've been in here all day!" It was all Harry could do to rein in his ire when his uncle let out a skeptical "Hmph." He spread his arms. "Search the room, if you like. I haven't got it."
Vernon's mustache was deflating. His eyes darted about the room suspiciously, then he shook a fat finger at Harry. "I warn you...!" And with that he stormed out.
Harry rolled his eyes skyward. "Bloody hell." Ron's phrase was rubbing off on him. He closed the door after his uncle a bit harder than necessary and turned to lean against it. "I'm going to go nuts, Hedwig," he grimaced after a moment, crossing to her cage and letting her back out. Hedwig fluttered onto his shoulder, adjusting the grip of her talons when Harry winced. "What do you think, hm?" he murmured as he stroked her. Hedwig gently nipped at his hair before settling back on top of her cage, leaving him to stare at the loose floorboard. Harry took a step towards it, then changed direction to the window when he heard the sound of the garage opening. He made it just in time to see Uncle Vernon's car pull out and speed off down Privet Drive. He grimaced. The horrid thing about Sunday at the Dursley's was that Vernon did not work. For a moment he considered owling Ron that night and asking if he couldn't stay at the Burrow before remembering: the last thing the Weasleys needed was to trouble over a guest. Even if they would not mind, Harry knew that Ron's was not the safest place to stay. His friend's letters had been sporadic and terse. He could set his clock by the ones from Hermione, though. He expected an owl from her around eleven tonight. But nothing from Laura or Sirius yet.
A second car came into Harry's vision. He started. It was turning into Mrs. Figg's driveway. As he watched, the driver got out and opened the door for a small, bird-like old lady, then went around to the trunk and lugged out a suitcase. Arabella Figg, back from her vacation on account of arthritis. Harry gaped. She was alive! He mentally wrung his hands for a moment, then turned and ran downstairs. The kitchen and living room were empty. A note on the refrigerator drew his attention.
Aunt P.
Harry's lip curled in disgust. That was another expression he had never worn until after fifth year, and he was not even aware of it. The jaded sneer was brief but went deep. Odd, I didn't hear Dudley wailing for his damn game. They must have decided to buy a new one before having to listen to it. He reached to snatch the paper from the refrigerator and throw it out, but something stayed his hand. It was signed by Aunt Petunia, who perhaps abhorred Harry more than Vernon did, and the Dursleys never bothered to leave him notes about anything. Harry's brow furrowed, but that lasted only a moment before he ran back into the foyer to the cupboard under the stairs, where he picked the lock and retrieved his invisibility cloak.
Nobody saw the front door that opened and closed without a person passing through it. Harry ran as quickly as he could beneath the cloak up the driveway, across the street and into Mrs. Figg's drive. The witch was greeting about a dozen cats at her feet and handing the driver a few pounds at the same time. "Thank you, young man. Ohh, darling! Yes, yes, I've missed you, yes I have," picking up a feline. "Have you met Dandruff?" The poor man took a step back as Dandruff, pinkish and fat, was practically thrust into his face.
Harry wondered distantly who had cared for her precious pets while she had been away. The summer sun was already starting to become uncomfortable. He looked about helplessly before noticing that the door to the house was ajar. Two or three cats lifted their noses to the air and sniffed in his direction as he slipped past them, watching the adults carefully. He made himself as flat as he could and squeezed in through the door.
The air-conditioning was a welcome relief. Harry looked around at the familiar living room. There was the rocking chair, next to the shelf with albums upon albums of cats. His neighbor's house looked the same as ever, but something seemed out of sync. Harry narrowed his eyes before it struck him: nothing had collected dust. In fact, the entire space looked very lived-in, including the half-empty cup of tea on the table by the rocker.
"Meow." Harry jumped as a black cat brushed against his legs. "Go away," he hissed, nudging it as gently as he could with his foot. He was afraid that his experiences with Mrs. Norris had ingrained a deep dislike of cats in him, but perhaps it was Figg who had truly planted the seeds. He looked up sharply when he heard footsteps--many of them--on the porch outside and retreated into a corner, still hiding beneath the cloak. A dozen cats preceded Figg as she pushed the door wide and stepped over the threshold, suitcase in hand. She set this down by her coat rack and brushed herself off.
She did not look much changed from when he had last seen her in the Alps, observed Harry; perhaps a bit thinner. The sharp intensity he had always mistaken for bedlam before fifth year was still in her face. He waited until she had waved her wand and replenished her cats' food and water in the kitchen before letting the cloak slide off. "Hello, Mrs. Figg."
In the next moment he was jerked off his feet, slammed back, and pinned very uncomfortably against the wall a meter above the carpet. Mistake number one: he had forgotten Arabella Figg was an Auror. Mistake number two: he had startled her, badly. Harry gasped and tried to move but found that his limbs might as well have been nailed to the wall. "Hey!" he gasped, staring down at the little woman who held him immobile with her wand. "It's me!"
"Harry Potter! What in the name of Merlin do you think you're doing?!" Figg shrilled, reminding Harry of Molly Weasley's Howler to Ron in second year, but ten times as frightening, especially when she brandished her wand and pressed him so hard against the wall Harry felt he was being flattened by a truck. Shock turned to real fear, so strong that it kicked an instinct Harry had only felt once, when he had accidentally inflated Aunt Marge to the size of a parade float. Something in him lashed out so unexpectedly that he saw white for a moment. Figg's wand jerked like a wild thing in her hand. She struggled with it briefly before it won out and dragged her aim elsewhere. Harry dropped to the floor with a thump.
"Meow." The same black cat, pawing at his shoulder. Harry pushed it away and stood up. Figg was staring at him oddly. "Look, I'm sorry--"
"I ought to skin you," she cut him off, glaring. Harry noticed she had tucked her wand away. That at least was encouraging. "Well, come on. Have some tea."
Her voice had to compete with the pounding in his ears. Harry followed her into the kitchen after a moment, shaken and dazed, nearly tripping over yet another cat on the way. He watched her as she set a pot of water to boil on the stove. Mrs. Figg raised an eyebrow at Harry, guessing his thoughts. "When we use magic to conjure a cup of tea, we miss the pleasure of waiting for it. Many things are like that." Harry blinked, startled when she met his gaze.
"H-how long have you been back?" he stammered.
Figg fixed him with a look. "A week now," she replied at last. A little weariness showed in her paper-thin hands as they reached for two cups and saucers. "I had to get some rest before arranging for that farçe outside."
"What's going on?" he burst out eagerly. "Is everything all right?"
Figg summoned Harry's cloak from where it lay in the other room. It smacked him full upside the head. "Where are those horrid relatives of yours?" she questioned, leaning out the window that faced the Dursleys's house as Harry sputtered and tried to disentangle himself.
"Out," he answered with a bit of a glare. "Why aren't you in Ireland?"
"Because I don't need to be, Harry," she said pointedly. "I should be the one asking you what you think you're doing, sneaking into other people's houses. You're lucky I didn't stun you--Aurors don't take kindly to people appearing out of the air in their homes."
Harry rubbed the back of his head, where he was sure a bruise was forming. "Sorry," he mumbled. He decided to wait in silence until the kettle whistled and Figg began filling their cups. "So...are the others home, too?" he hazarded when she dropped the tea bags in and handed him his cup.
"If you're asking about your godfather, yes. He's safe and sound."
That was all Harry needed to hear. He must be getting a return letter soon, then. "So what's going on?" he repeated, leaning back against the counter and taking a polite sip of his tea. He didn't know why the witch was drinking hot water in the middle of June, but it was an eccentricity suffered much more easily than endless photographs of cats. "I know about the Summoning," he added a bit impatiently, mainly to cover the unease Figg's gaze caused. "Why aren't you still watching out for Vold--him?"
Mrs. Figg's eyes flashed angrily. Her voice was like a bucket of ice water tossed into Harry's face. "Perhaps you would like to single-handedly maintain vigil over all of Ireland for a month, Harry Potter."
Harry felt his neck flush. "I...I didn't mean--"
Figg sighed and put her cup down. "I'm sorry," she said tightly. "I know you didn't." She eyed him. "Voldemort is not an immediate threat right now."
Harry choked. "What do you mean?" he demanded after suffering a mild coughing fit.
"Exactly what I say."
"You mean the Summoning isn't going to work, or what?"
Arabella Figg studied him for a moment before taking his tea from him. "I can't say more. We're not giving up, that's all you need to know. Now, go back to your--"
"No, that's not!" he snapped, shaking off her hand on his elbow a bit recklessly. "Listen. I can't just sit in my room all summer and wait for Percy's trial. I can't! At least tell me what's happening out there. Tell me something I can do."
"You," said Figg firmly, "can stay out of trouble." A cat jumped up onto the counter and rubbed against her shoulder, purring. She brought her hand up to stroke it as her face softened. "Focus on that trial, Harry. This war is being fought on many fronts. We need to win the Ministry before Voldemort does. He has other avenues besides Dementors." Harry shuddered involuntarily.
"Fine," he lied. "Then what about Ron?" Figg looked troubled for a moment. Harry pressed harder. "Dumbledore, he said he didn't think Fudge wanted them dead. He said there might be some third group. Is that true?"
The Auror hesitated. "Most likely. We know very little. The Longbottoms are our seeds in the Ministry, and they are only two. What they've reported back to us..." She shook her head, looking suddenly frustrated. "Nothing. After they discovered plans on Weasley's life, they still couldn't find the parties involved. They didn't even make a move after the children were brought out."
Harry narrowed his eyes. "Wait. You mean the coast's not clear?" He mistook her silence for confusion. "I mean, why were they brought out if you never stopped the assassins?"
Figg's face was suddenly inscrutable. A very unpleasant thought began to take hold in Harry's mind. Finally, the witch set down her tea and looked him in the eye. "I won't insult your intelligence, Harry."
"Bait," he breathed, so angry that it made his voice weak. "They were bait."
"Go home, Harry," said Mrs. Figg. Before he could react she stepped back and pointed her wand at him. The next thing Harry knew, he was standing in the middle of Privet Drive, holding his invisibility cloak and desperately wanting to smash something.
