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Author: Aibhinn Story: Heal The Pain Rating: Teens Setting: AU Status: Completed Reviews: 7 Words: 198,021
A/N: A quick warning, lest you be startled: some characters from Order of the Phoenix will be appearing or mentioned in this chapter. If you haven't read the book, don't worry. There aren't any major spoilers; I've made sure of that. Harry somehow managed to land on his feet, though he did stumble a bit as the Portkey deposited him in the front lawn of an ordinary-looking house surrounded by trees. He raised his wand, searching with narrowed eyes through the gloom for any sign of trouble. There was nothing, not even a whisper. No other houses were nearby; it was just this dark-windowed house and the quarter moon rising above it. Suddenly he tensed; from his left, he heard the distinctive whooshing sound of another Portkey arriving. He faced the direction of the sound and gripped his wand firmly, holding it ready. A tall, broad-shouldered man half-fell out of nowhere, staggering just as Harry had. "Bloody hell!" the figure swore quietly in Ron's voice. Without thinking, Harry reached to catch him before he fell. "All right?" Harry asked as Ron caught his breath. "Yeah." Ron straightened, his own wand in his hand. "What's going on?" "Dunno. I just got here myself. Haven't seen or heard a thing." The roiling in Harry's gut intensified, and he winced, placing his hand to his stomach. Ron did the same. "Wish we'd find out, though," Harry muttered. He turned to look toward the right, knowing that Ron had turned to scan the other direction. A flash of movement caught his eye, and he squinted. "Oi," he whispered. "Got someone. You?" "Nothing." Ron's voice had dropped to a whisper, too, but he didn't turn. That was procedure; he was still scanning for trouble. "Ours or theirs?" "Unknown." Harry glanced behind him at the line of trees. "Back here." He and Ron melted into the shadows between the trees, crouching down with their wands out. "Reckon we should Disillusion ourselves?" Ron whispered. Harry considered, then shook his head. "He's too close," he whispered. "He'd hear us." Besides, Ron had never quite mastered the Disillusionment Charm; he tended to miss odd parts of his body. It would hardly help them hide if whoever was approaching should see a hand and a knee floating in mid-air. They fell silent, watching the figure move closer. It was small and slender and moved carefully, as though looking for something or someone. As Harry watched, it stopped about four metres from them and slowly, cautiously, raised its hands to the side, fingers spread to show it was unarmed. Or, rather, that she was unarmed; the figure was now silhouetted to show a very feminine outline. "Watch my back," Ron muttered, and stood suddenly, wand raised. "Lumos." Ron's wand lit, and he pointed it at the stranger. A sweet-faced blonde woman met his gaze. "Identify yourself," he grated. "Dolores Umbridge has mad cow disease," said a very familiar, if unexpected, voice that made both Harry and Ron blink. She winked, then shimmered, and suddenly an equally familiar (and unexpected) face grinned at Ron. "Tonks?" he said in disbelief. "Wotcher, Ron," she said happily, then grimaced. "Oops. I meant Red Knight. Sorry. Is Har—er, Onyx—here, too?" Harry started to move, but Ron made a quick motion behind his back, and Harry stayed still. "Maybe," he said suspiciously. "How do I know you're who you say you are?" Tonks raised an eyebrow, but didn't argue. "Because I used to wake Padfoot's mother every time I walked into headquarters?" A corner of her mouth quirked upward in another grin. "That's her," Harry said, convinced. He stood and moved over next to Ron. "What's going on, Tonks? Something to do with the Order?" Her grin faded. "No, but a great deal that's very nasty," she said quietly. She motioned Harry and Ron closer. "Look, I'm here purely as an Auror; the Order is still disbanded, at least for the nonce. That said, Twilight got hold of me and asked me to bring you something. Herm—er, Zephyr's here as well. How do you manage with these ridiculous code names?" she burst out in frustration. "Weeks of practice," Ron said dryly. "And a great deal of yelling." He glanced at Harry, and his eyes widened. "Onyx," he whispered through gritted teeth, "your scar." "My—oh!" He'd forgotten that he'd removed the glamour earlier. He touched his wand to his forehead and muttered the incantation under his breath. The icy feeling spread through the scar again, and after a moment, Ron nodded. "Better," he said, "but blimey, Onyx, you watch yourself!" "Yeah," Harry said distractedly. Ginny's nightmare was still on his mind, so much so that he could only feel vaguely grateful to Ron for keeping him from inadvertently outing himself. "Thanks, mate." Tonks was watching with undisguised curiosity. "Cor, that's useful," she said admiringly. "What is it, a modified Disillusionment Charm?" "Something like that, yeah." Harry shook his head, trying to focus. "What's Zephyr doing here?" "She and her partner have been assigned to the Magical Forensics team," Tonks said, still quietly. "She was one of the first called in. She has her own job to do. Your job is on this." She held out another cylinder with the Department of Mysteries seal on it. Harry took it, and felt the distinctive energies of a protective charm. He tapped it with his wand, and, recognizing his magical signature, it unrolled itself into a parchment. Harry was impressed; he had only seen memos like this once or twice. They were reserved for top secret information. Ron angled the light from his wand over it, and they both read. Onyx and Red Knight: After our discussion yesterday, I have decided to put you on permanent assignment to find out all you can about the Death Eaters responsible for these attacks. You will be gathering and collating information, as you did with the map you designed, and reporting to me on a regular basis. You are to note and report all information regarding modes of operation and outcomes of attacks. It is imperative that we locate and destroy this nest of Death Eaters as quickly as possible. Consequently, it will be your responsibility to take reports at all scenes of attacks and use them to synthesize any kind of patterns you can. Twilight "So we're to go to every attack there is?" Ron said disbelievingly. "Bugger. And I thought we were going to get some sleep sometime this decade." Tonks shook her head, her face uncharacteristically serious. "You don't understand how important this is," she said. "We Aurors are at the end of our collective rope; we lost more than half our people in the Battle, and too many are still in hospital or otherwise recovering. The Order was hit even harder. But the Death Eaters somehow managed to pull themselves back together and start terrorising the country again less than six months after the Battle was over, and they've not stopped since. It's been eight months now, and we're no closer to finding, let alone stopping, any of them than we were in June." "So that means what, exactly?" Ron asked. "It means that they need us," Harry said quietly. Tonks nodded. "Because there just isn't anyone else." "It's so bad the Aurors and the Department of Mysteries are working together," Tonks said. "That's nearly unheard of; there's always been bad blood between our folk and yours." She glanced over at the house. "Come on; your Portkeys were supposed to take you right into the thick of things, but Twilight had them spelled to drop you out here, so we could meet up for this chat. You've got to come up with any information you can, lads; it's that desperate out there. Understand?" Harry and Ron glanced at each other. "Right," Ron said finally. "Lead the way." "Right you are. And you don't know me, if anyone asks," she added as they started toward the house. "And I don't know you. Easier that way, especially with these idiotic code names you lot insist on. Hermione already knows not to let on that we're friends." They walked silently across the ankle-length grass toward the house, which was beginning to look faintly sinister. Harry thought back to the summons he'd received at The Three Broomsticks: Condition: Red. Deaths, then. Or at least a death; though the attacks of late had rarely, if ever, resulted in only a single fatality. Tonks stopped in front of the door and looked back at them. "Remember this spell; you'll need it to get through the wards at investigative scenes." She raised her wand and pointed it at the door. "Aperi Sinito!" The door creaked open, and she waved them on as she stepped over the threshold. They followed, Harry with some trepidation which, he realised as soon as he was inside, wasn't entirely unwarranted. Under normal circumstances, the sitting room would have been quite a lovely little place, with an off-white carpet, blue-grey furniture, and a great deal of artwork and photographs lining the walls and the mantel. Now, however, it was a shambles. Books and trinkets lay scattered across the floor; lamps and furniture had been overturned; pictures had apparently been knocked off the mantelpiece and now lay amidst the mess, their subjects covering their eyes in horror or shivering in a corner of the frame—some had disappeared from their frames entirely. There was no blood, but Harry wasn't sure whether to be glad of that or not. He quickly averted his eyes from the glowing outlines of human figures on the floor, apparently marking the positions of the victims when they'd been discovered, as well as the shrouded bodies that had been carefully lined up against one wall. One of those still, white forms seemed far, far too small for his comfort. He looked up, and there stood Hermione with her partner, Domina. He was grateful to see her. If anyone could make sense of this mess, it was Hermione. "Zephyr," he said by way of greeting and to make certain his voice worked properly. He hadn't been sure it would. "Hi, Onyx, Red Knight." She gave Ron a quick smile, which he returned, then she suddenly became businesslike again. "Right. Twilight has told us what it is he wants you to do, so we've prepared a bit of a report for you." She held out a piece of parchment about a foot and a half long, covered in her small, precise handwriting. "A bit of a report?" Ron muttered under his breath, but Hermione either didn't hear him or ignored him. Probably the latter, Harry thought. Harry took the report and perused it, glancing over the highlights. Under "Casualties," he paused. "Wizard, witch, and baby," he said softly. He looked up. "How old was the baby?" Domina spoke up. "About six months or so," she said. Her contralto voice always surprised Harry every time he heard it; such a deep voice didn't seem to fit with her small, slender frame and delicate features. Her straight brown hair was pulled back from her face and secured at the nape of her neck with an elastic; her eyes were open and sedate. It was, in fact, her usual, unreadable expression. Six months old. And dead because the Death Eaters decided to have a bit of 'fun.' The anger was coming back now, an icy fury that spread outward from his gut. He embraced it, welcoming it as an alternative to the hopeless fear and guilt and despair he'd felt since he'd woken Ginny from her nightmare. It was far, far different from the rage he'd felt almost constantly since awakening in hospital after the Battle; where that had burned, this froze, leaving his mind crystal clear. He had a feeling he'd need that clarity if he was to see this through. And I will see this through, he promised himself. Ron moved over next to him, and the two of them continued scanning the parchment. "This looks good, Zephyr," Ron commented. "Really good. But what about next-of-kin? Have they been notified?" "We're working on that," Hermione said. "Not many of the people in the photographs we've picked up are willing to be identified just yet, so we're not sure how to go about finding out whom to contact. Maybe you can figure some way of convincing them to show their faces." She gestured toward the tumbled photo frames in front of the fireplace. Harry frowned and, pushing the parchment into Ron's hands, walked over to the hearthrug. He knelt down and began picking up the photos, one at a time. "Wait a minute," Domina said sharply, frowning. "Should you be disturbing the scene?" Anger flared. Harry stopped in the process of picking up a third photo and rose to his feet, swiveling to tower over her small frame. She took half a step backward, startled, but he didn't care. He was in no mood to deal with idiocy. "Oh, and shrouding the bodies and moving them didn't already do that?" he asked sarcastically, glaring at her through narrowed eyes. She flushed but said nothing, though she set her chin as if unwilling to admit she'd been wrong. "Let's get something very clear," he said icily, projecting his fury without raising his voice a whit. "You and Zephyr are the Magical Forensics team for this investigation. Your job is to do the prelims and prepare the Forensics report, for which the scene does, indeed, have to be undisturbed. Once your report is finished, the bodies are moved from their original position and the scene is cleared for us to do our job before final authorisation is given for cleanup." He swept the room with his gaze, pointedly, before returning his eyes to hers. "Shouldn't you be just about done so you can get the hell out of our way?" "Onyx!" Hermione said, shocked, but Domina just sniffed and walked away, head held high. Hermione watched her partner go, then rounded on Harry. "That was very rude!" she whispered harshly, for his ears alone. "So was she," Harry said bluntly. "I do know what I'm doing here, Zephyr. She needs to stay the hell out of my way so I can do it." He turned back to his task, kneeling to collect the photographs from the floor. Hermione stayed where she was for a long moment, then stalked off with a sigh of frustration. There was a slight pause, then Ron said, "Well. Tonks and I'll go look through the bedroom, see what we can find out, shall we?" His voice held a definite note of disapproval. Harry felt a rush of irritation. There was a dead baby here, and Ron was worried about whether Harry had been polite to Domina? "Yeah," he said shortly, not looking up. "You do that." Ron moved off. Harry finished gathering the photographs, then rose again, setting them on the mantel in no particular order, just so he could get a good look at them. Hermione had been right; very few of them had their subjects still visible at all. A few cautious faces were peering around the corners of the frames, checking to see if it was safe to come out, but for the most part, the pictures had no people in them at all. Except for two. Harry frowned and stepped closer, picking those two up to look at them. They were both of a mousy-haired boy with glasses not unlike Harry's own. In one, the boy looked to be about ten; he was flying round and round the front yard on what was obviously his first broom—it looked like a Cleansweep, though Harry couldn't tell which model. Probably a Six or Seven, he thought to himself. After seven years on the House Quidditch team, identifying brooms was a matter of habit with him. The boy swooped back and forth on his broomstick, laughing delightedly with the wind in his hair, apparently unconcerned with any trouble that might have happened in the house earlier. The second picture was more recent—and Harry suddenly realised that he knew the boy. Malcolm Baddock, a Slytherin who would be in—Harry thought for a moment—fifth year this year. He put the younger picture back on the mantel and frowned at this one. It, too, had been taken in front of the house; Baddock slouched with an air of ill-concealed irritation, dressed in his Hogwarts uniform though it was clearly summer, his hands in his pockets and his eyes rolling with impatience. He shifted from one foot to another, clearly annoyed that he was being forced to indulge someone's—his parents'?—desire to have a picture of him. Every few moments he blew out a sigh that spoke volumes as to how put-upon he thought he was. Harry smirked at the boy's attitude, but then suddenly the smirk turned to a frown. Was this, in fact, the boy's house? The photographs implied so. "Harry!" Ron came out of the bedroom. "Harry, I think we've figured out who these people are." He held up a sheaf of papers. "Letters. They're addressed to John and Erica Baddock, and one or two of them mention the baby, whose name was apparently Christopher." "Yeah, I've just found this as well." Harry held up the picture of the sighing, eye-rolling Malcolm. "Look familiar?" Ron stepped forward and took the picture. "I think so," he said slowly, frowning as he thought. "Slytherin, right? Yeah—I can see the crest on his robes now." He looked up at Harry. "I reckon we'd better get ahold of Professor McGonagall," he said soberly. "Slytherin he may be, but I don't relish the idea of having to tell him he's suddenly an orphan." ---------------- It was almost two-thirty a.m., and Harry was ready to drop. Hermione and Domina had left not long after he and Ron had identified the victims. He, Ron, and Tonks had gone over the house with a fine-toothed comb, cataloguing everything they'd moved in their search for information about the victims, in relation to the diagram Hermione and Domina had made of the scene as it had been when the two had arrived after the initial alarm. Once that had been completed, Ron and Tonks had gone outside to see if they could find any clues on the grounds while Harry finished up the paperwork inside. An hour had passed since they'd left him to the report, and they were still at it. Harry set the quill down and pulled his glasses off, dropping them onto the coffee table and burying his face in his hands. God, he was tired. And this information still had to get back to Headquarters, and then he and Ron had to go to Hogwarts and inform Professor McGonagall of the deaths, so that she could tell Malcolm. Please, he thought desperately, let her tell Malcolm. Don't make us tell him. His mind drifted back to Ginny. He hoped, prayed, she'd been as all right as she'd insisted. Harry wasn't convinced she'd been telling the whole truth about that—but she had been right in that he'd had to go. He still cursed the timing of it, though. His guilt swam uncomfortably in his gut: guilt at leaving her, guilt at not remembering about the baby, guilt at not being able to help her any more than he had—which hadn't been much, really. I'll make sure to see her when we go to Hogwarts, he told himself, straightening up and reaching for his glasses again. And I'll make a point of coming every weekend from now on, and owling her during the week. The guilt subsided a bit as the room slid back into focus. He settled his glasses properly on his nose and ran his hand through his hair in frustration—then stopped. His eyes fell on the shrouded bodies in the corner. No, not on the bodies, plural; on the smallest one, a pitifully small bulge under the white cotton. His gaze had been drawn to them all night; though he'd consciously tried to avoid looking at them, he had always found his eyes drifting back toward them in macabre fascination. And always, his focus had been on that smallest body lying next to its parents. Memory flashed. Ginny, sitting on his lap at the Burrow last June, crying as she told him about the baby for the first time. Ginny sitting bolt upright in bed, just hours ago, screaming in the midst of a nightmare. Ginny curled against his body, sobbing as he tried to comfort her. Slowly, as if he were sleepwalking, he stood and moved toward that tiny bundle. Sinking to one knee next to its side, he reached out a trembling hand to pull away the sheet. Soft, downy, mousy-brown hair drifted lightly over the little head. The baby's eyes were closed, dark blue blood vessels clearly visible through the nearly transparent skin. His hands were relaxed, lying at his side; his head was turned very slightly to the right; his mouth was open a fraction of an inch. He was wearing dark blue robes with a baby lion embroidered on the front in what looked like hand-sewn stitches. He looked so like he was just sleeping that Harry unthinkingly touched his cheek with a finger. He was ice-cold. Harry jerked his hand back as though he'd been burned. The emotions that were beginning to burn deep in his heart, his soul, were as nothing he'd ever experienced. Protectiveness. Helplessness. Dawning realisation. This is what Ginny and I could have had. It hit him in the gut so hard that he nearly retched. This was what Ginny had dreamed last night. This was what he himself might have been holding in six months or so. This was what might have been growing within Ginny—what their love might have created. Had created. This was what Voldemort had stolen from them. He reached out again. This time he didn't jerk back as he touched the delicate skin with the tip of his index finger. Cold, yes; but soft—so very, very soft. He traced the boy's—Christopher's—cheek, around the chubby curve to the ear that looked like it was made of porcelain, it was so delicate. He reached down and picked up one of the boy's hands. The fingers curled slightly as he lifted the baby's wrist—a purely muscular reflex, he knew, but a lump formed in his throat at the sight. Swallowing, he spread the fingers out in his own palm. Their tiny flawlessness amazed him; his own hand looked enormous, clumsy, in comparison. There was something visceral about seeing a miniature, perfect hand in his own like this. It wasn't only something else to blame Voldemort for now. It wasn't only a nightmare that had made Ginny shake and cry in his arms last night. It was real. I would have been a father. It had never been this real before—never been this immediate. Even his anger the day after Ginny had told him about the baby had been nothing like this. Before it had been just something else Voldemort had taken from him. Now it was a child. His child. The door opened and he jumped, throwing the sheet back over the baby and whirling. "Onyx?" Tonks stuck her head in. "We've finished our search of the grounds, and Red Knight's made a few notes. You two really ought to carry a camera," she said. Harry had risen to his feet, a bit embarrassed. "Yeah," he said. "We'll, um, fix that. Next time. We didn't expect to be called in." "Yeah, I know." She frowned and stepped into the doorway, cocking her head at him. "Oi, you okay, Harry?" He took off his glasses and rubbed his eyes again. His hands were trembling. He hadn't noticed that before. "Yeah," he said. "Yeah. I'm just tired." He looked up at her and managed a half-grin. "You'd best get used to the Onyx thing, if we're to keep up the fiction that we don't know you," he said by way of distraction. "This time we only had to fool Domina; next time it might be lots more." She rolled her eyes. "I know. But it's hard, after all these years." "When it's your arse on the line, it's easier to remember." He glanced around. "I'm nearly done here. I'll just finish up and meet you two outside, all right?" She nodded and, with a last, piercing look at him, let the door close behind her. Taking a deep breath, he turned back to the small, shrouded form and knelt again at its side. "I'll find them," he whispered, not sure whether he was talking to Christopher or to his own child. "I'll find them. I swear it." The icy rage surged, and his eyes narrowed. "And I'll kill them myself." Jaw set, he rose, turned on his heel, and strode toward the door, picking up the parchment from the coffee table. As he passed the mantel, he slowed, then stopped. Several of the pictures that had been empty were now populated again, by subjects who still looked frightened, but no longer horrified. His gaze fell on one in particular whose composition made his heart clench. A man stood in the middle, his arm protectively around a woman who was presumably his wife. She, in turn, clutched her baby close to her chest. Unwillingly, but unable to stop himself, he looked at the still-glowing outline on the floor of the hallway: a body on its side, something held close to its chest. She, like his own mother, had died trying to protect her baby; but unlike his own mother, she had not succeeded. He reached out and picked up the photograph, looking at the little family with eyes that burned with unshed tears. He stared at it for a long moment before pulling his wand out of his wrist sheath and shrinking the picture and its frame. He tucked it into the pocket of his jeans, then slid his wand back into place and left, closing the door carefully behind him. ----------------- Harry and Ron managed to make it safely to the Intelligence Centre's Apparition point, which was a bit of relief; Harry was so exhausted by this point that he wasn't sure even his anger could keep him focused enough to avoid splinching himself. Without having to consult each other, Ron went straight for the coffee pot and Harry went to Twilight's office. He was only vaguely surprised to see his superior sitting at his desk, looking as though he'd been at work for some time. "Ah, Onyx," Twilight said genially, looking up. "So you've finished with the—" He stopped and looked, really looked, at Harry, and frowned. "Sit down," he said forcefully, "before you fall down. Damn it, boy, how much sleep have you got since I dismissed you?" "Er…" Harry sat, trying to think past the muzziness of fatigue. About five and a half hours at the Burrow before I went to Hogsmeade. And I might have dozed a bit in The Three Broomsticks with Ginny before her nightmare. "About six hours, I think." "Idiot," Twilight said exasperatedly. "And you Apparated here? It's a damned good thing you didn't splinch yourself halfway across the damned country! Ah, Red Knight." Ron came quietly in the door, carrying two cups of coffee in one big hand. "Excellent idea; you look as done in as your mate. I'm not sure I should let you go home like this; even with a Portkey, you could end up getting badly hurt. Don't let yourself get this exhausted again," he said sternly. "If you want us to be at the scenes of attacks, sir," Harry said, taking a cup from Ron and taking a large swallow—it was hot, but he desperately needed the caffeine, "we may not have a choice." "Hm. Point. We may have to partner you two up with another pair that are trustworthy, if these attacks start getting more frequent." Twilight passed his hands over his face wearily. "Which it looks like they're doing. You've got the Forensics report from the one last night?" "Yes, sir." Harry handed it over and took another drink of coffee. The taste was starting to grow on him, though he wasn't sure he'd ever actually like it. Twilight took the parchment and looked it over. "Three casualties," he observed heavily. "Dead when the teams got there. They never had a chance." Tiny, perfect hands… ears like porcelain shells… a hand-embroidered lion on dark blue robes… He forced the memories away as Ron began listing what they'd found out. "…witch, wizard, and baby," he was saying. "Apparently hit by the Killing Curse, as Forensics wasn't able to find any other explanation for their deaths; they weren't poisoned, according to the medi-charms Zephyr performed, and there was no apparent trauma to the bodies. There was also no apparent reason for the attack beyond the killings; nothing seemed to have been disturbed except in what looked like a struggle of some sort. Auror Tonks and I looked over the grounds, what we could in the dark and moonlight at least, and we found several sets of footprints just outside the back door, but nothing leading up to them. We presume that means the Death Eaters either Apparated or used Portkeys to arrive at the house, and chose to appear in the back yard so there would be less chance of discovery by the Muggle neighbours." "And the neighbours are Muggles?" Twilight asked, glancing through the parchment reports—theirs as well as the one produced by Hermione and Domina. "Yes, sir," Ron said. "Forensics checked that out. Zephyr's Muggle-born, you know; she was able to do it without attracting suspicion." "Mm." Twilight looked over the parchment again. "John and Erica Baddock, and son Christopher," he read. "Elder son Malcolm a fifth-year at Hogwarts." He ran his hand over his balding head. "Minerva will have to be told," he muttered. "We'd planned to inform her ourselves, sir," Harry said. His coffee was gone now, and the caffeine was starting to kick in; his brain was starting to clear of its fog. "We thought it would be better coming from us, as she knows us." "Yes," Twilight said tiredly. "I expect you're right." He looked up. "But you two aren't going anywhere in this state," he said flatly. "You'd end up spreading bits of yourselves across half the country. It's only—" he glanced up at the clock on the wall "—three in the morning; Minerva won't be up yet, and there's no call to wake her, since nothing can be done at this point. We've got cots set up in the Night Room; you can kip there and we'll wake you in a few hours. No arguments. That coffee won't hold you for long, if I'm any judge of exhaustion—and after twenty years in this department, I am." "But sir," Harry began. He'd been hoping he could Apparate back to The Three Broomsticks and see Ginny before she returned to Hogwarts in the morning. "No buts. You'll sleep here; I'll get some other redhead in the Department to bring a change of clothes for the morning." He gave Ron a significant look, though the fact that he knew, or suspected, that Ron was related to the twins, Charlie, and Bill wasn't so surprising; the five of them did resemble each other closely. "Any further questions?" "No, sir," Ron said. Harry shrugged, resigned. He really wanted—needed—to see Ginny again, and soon, but he recognised that his fatigue was so great that he'd likely do just as Twilight had said, and splinch himself royally. I'll just have to get up early and go to Hogsmeade to see her before she leaves, he thought. "Right, then." Twilight stood, and so did they two. "This is a fine piece of work, boys," he said, holding their report in one hand, the Forensics report still resting on his desk. "New as you are to the Department, you've already made a name for yourselves—at least here in Intelligence you have." He smiled. "You're dismissed. Off you go—and mind you go straight to sleep, dammit." "Yes, sir," Ron and Harry said in unison. Harry led the way out of the office, his empty coffee cup dangling from the two fingers it was hooked over as he rubbed his face. "Damn if I don't think Twilight is willing to give us a Draught of Living Death or something if we don't follow or—oh!—ders," Ron said, a yawn interrupting the last word. "Not that I'd mind. It'd keep us from having to give the bad news to McGonagall." "Yeah." Harry dropped his hands and stopped in the middle of the aisle, looking around with a frown. Ron stopped beside him "Hang on," Harry said. "Where is the Night Room?" "Off to the right a bit," Ron said, pointing vaguely in that direction. "In that corner. Harry turned to him and raised an eyebrow inquiringly. "I found it by accident when I was looking for the coffee room the first time," Ron said, shrugging. "Bloke gave me the wrong directions. Look, I don't care what you want to do, but I'm fair knackered. I'm off to sleep, okay?" Ron started off in the direction of the Night Room, and Harry followed. He ached for sleep, but— What if I dream? His stomach turned. Ginny's dream last night had horrified him just hearing it second-hand; even all the nightmares he had endured over the years, all the horrors he had experienced at the hands of Voldemort and Death Eaters, could not compare with the horror and self-loathing he had seen on his beloved's face and in her eyes. Now that he knew—now that he'd seen the baby and understood what it was he'd lost—he didn't know if he could ever get it out of his mind. Ron stopped abruptly, and Harry nearly walked into him. "Finally," Ron muttered, reaching up to unbutton his robes. "Nothing's ever looked as inviting as this." Harry glanced around and, to his surprise, he found that he agreed. The "cots" that Twilight had referred to were actually beds that looked nearly identical to the one he'd slept in at Hogwarts, curtains and all. The only difference was in the colour; the hangings were black, the duvet and sheets white. Ten identical beds stood in the room, five to either side of the door. All of their curtains were open. "Well, come on. Are you going to sleep or not?" came Ron's voice. Harry shook himself and looked up. His best mate already had his boots and his robes off, and was working on his shirt. Sighing, Harry stumbled to the bed on the far side of Ron's and slumped down on the edge of it. He toed his boots off and slowly unbuttoned the dragonhide vest, tossing it over the end of the bed. His jeans followed, and, wearing only his boxers and socks, he slid under the covers and shut the curtains. Maybe I can leave early and go to Hogsmeade… But he was asleep before the thought was even completed. ---------------- Ginny awoke slowly, aware that she was in a strange bed alone, but not able to remember why until she finally opened her eyes. The Three Broomsticks. Yes, she remembered now. Her birthday…Harry's visit… The dream. The baby. Pain and guilt curled round her heart and she wrapped her arms around herself, drawing her knees to her chest as if to protect herself from it. And Harry… Harry had left. He had to leave, an insistent, familiar voice—Harry's voice?—said in the back of her mind. The Ministry called him. He didn't want to go. He didn't want to leave you. Oh, yes, he did, another voice said. This one was cold, flat, heartless. Why would he want to stay with the woman who killed his child? Who flat-out said she'd do it again? "I didn't have a choice," she whimpered aloud. Tears were beginning to slip out of her eyes again, trailing down to the pillow. "I didn't. I didn't." Of course you did. Everyone has a choice. You had the choice between life or death, and you chose death. She chose death. She shivered at the iciness of the words, even when she herself thought them. Of her own free well, she chose death. But Harry's voice spoke again in the words he'd used last night: It was War. There were no easy choices. If you hadn't done it, hundreds, maybe thousands of innocents would have suffered. I would have died. You would have died. The baby would still have died. Voldemort would have survived. All we can do is learn to live with it. Ginny squeezed her eyes shut, then opened them again and sat up, pushing her tears away with the heel of her hand. She would not let this destroy her. She wouldn't. She was stronger than that. And what about Harry? the cold voice sneered. What will he say? "He's already said it," she said aloud again, defiantly, though her heart twitched a bit with fear. She had a term to complete, a course of study to return to, N.E.W.T.s to take. She would not let the past control her. Throwing the covers aside, she pulled her robes back on and slid her feet into her shoes. She'd go back to the castle, early as it was. Back to her familiar surroundings, to her routine, to her friends. She'd make it through this, without worrying Harry again. He'd called her strong… well, she was going to show him how strong she could be. Sweeping up the room key in one hand, she pulled the door open and trotted down the stairs. ----------------- Harry pulled his boots on and stood up, adjusting his robes. It was the first time he'd worn them as a full member of the Department—he hadn't been required to before this, because he'd never left the Ministry building except to go home—and they felt distinctly odd, after weeks of wearing essentially Muggle clothing. He tugged at the neckline briefly, then reached over to adjust the corded knots on his shoulder. "Quit playing with it, Captain Onyx," Charlie said with a grin. "People will think you're showing off your rank or something." Ron pulled a face as he turned back from the mirror, comb in hand. "Oh, like you're not, Colonel Blaze?" "He's entitled," Bill said from his seated position on the bed Ron had slept in. "They both are. New promotions are always entitled to a bit of preening. Though I must admit, it was several days after my last promotion before I preened." "Yeah, and you were unconscious or drugged for most of those several days," Charlie returned. "A minor detail." Ignoring the by-play, Harry turned to the mirror himself and looked carefully at his reflection. His robes were nearly identical to the ones worn by the men who'd been guarding the door into training camp: dark blue, with silver cords knotted on his left shoulder. The difference lay in the fact that, after nine weeks (well, seven and a half, really) of training camp, he could actually read the meanings in the knots. He and Ron had been given the rank of captain when they'd left training camp. In the normal course of things, that would have led to them being in command of a squad, but their specific strengths—their experience in the War, not to mention Ron's gift for strategy—had led to their assignment in the Intelligence Centre. Hermione, too, was a captain, though Harry didn't know what Domina's rank was; neither woman had been wearing their uniform the night before. Probably a captain as well, though one partner's promotion didn't guarantee the other's at the same time. "Tell me again," Ron said in a rather tetchy tone as Harry attempted to tame his hair into some semblance of order, "why we have to wear these damned things." He, too, tugged at the neckline of his robes, rather more strongly than Harry had, though the necks weren't at all tight, even on Ron. "Won't they just advertise that we're working for the Department? I thought we were supposed to be undercover." "They look just like Auror's robes, Einstein," Charlie retorted. "When you're on official business you wear them; it gives the average wizard the idea that you can be trusted and makes you look like an authority figure, without compromising your cover. You really should have worn them last night, but since you were dragged out of your warm beds in the middle of the night, it's not that big a deal." Charlie paused, then added with a raised eyebrow, "They were your warm beds, weren't they?" Ron turned faintly pink. Harry was sure his own blush was more than faint. "I wondered," Charlie grinned. "Drop it, Blaze," Bill said. "They've got more than enough to be getting on with this morning." He rose and looked both Harry and Ron over with a practised eye. "Yes," he said. "You two look like you could represent the Department just fine. Onyx, are you going to keep the glamour over your scar?" Harry's hand went automatically to his forehead, where the familiar lightning bolt was neither visible nor tangible. "Until we get to Hogsmeade," he said. "I'll remove the glamour then." "You won't be going to Hogsmeade," Twilight's voice came from the door. The head of Intelligence was leaning against the doorjamb, watching them. All four of them snapped to attention and faced him, Harry still with a comb in his hand. Twilight smirked. "As you were," he said, waving a hand dismissively. "I don't like this whole stand-on-ceremony thing. As I was saying, you won't be going to Hogsmeade. I sent an owl to Minerva McGonagall this morning and just got a message back; she's perfectly willing to have you Portkey there instead of having to Apparate to the village and then walk." He held out a leather case for parchment, and Ron took it. "It's been spelled to go directly to her office, and the wards have been taken down for that purpose. The report for Minerva is in there as well. You've got—" he glanced at his watch "—about two minutes until it activates." "Right." Charlie turned to them and took the comb out of Harry's hand. "Okay, you two, you're representing the Department now. No throwing Dungbombs, or annoying Moaning Myrtle, or chasing Mrs. Norris, or setting Blast-Ended Skrewts loose in the dungeons, or…" Bill elbowed his brother. "Cut it out, Blaze," he said soberly. "This is no laughing matter. They wouldn't be going to Hogwarts if it weren't very serious." "All the more reason for the occasional chuckle, brother dear," Charlie said sententiously. "Battlefield humour, and all that." Harry took hold of one side of the Portkey; Ron was still holding the other. "I don't feel much like laughing after last night," he said quietly. His sleep had been disturbed, but not enough to wake him completely. He only remembered that he'd had dreams that involved crying babies and Ginny collapsed in a heap on the floor. When Bill and Charlie had awakened him and Ron, about four hours after they'd gone to sleep, Harry had a headache and a distinctly uncomfortable, not-quite-nauseated feeling in the pit of his stomach, neither of which had subsided much. Ron shot him a look out of the corner of his eye, but said only, "Neither do I. I just want to get this over with so I can go home and get some sleep. Yes, sleep," he repeated significantly, glaring at Charlie and daring him to make a smart remark. "Sleep is good," Twilight said, pushing off the doorjamb to stand upright. "I highly recommend it. You two—" he looked at Harry and Ron "—come back here as soon as you're done with Minerva and report, then you'll be heading back home again. And you will sleep this time." "Yes, sir," Harry and Ron chorused. "Right." Twilight checked his watch. "About ten seconds. The Portkey will bring you back as well; just tap it with your wand and say 'Reverto.'" Harry felt the familiar tug behind his navel, and he was being jerked through space toward Hogwarts. He had just enough time to remember how much he hated Portkeys before he landed in McGonagall's office, staggering as usual but managing somehow to keep his feet. Ron collapsed over the back of one of the chairs and had to right himself, blushing furiously. McGonagall had risen and was watching them impassively, but Harry thought she might have the smallest of smiles teasing the corners of her mouth. "Captain Onyx," she said with grave courtesy. "Captain Red Knight." "Headmistress," Harry acknowledged with similar courtesy. "We appreciate the special permission to arrive this way, rather than walking up from the village." "I am always ready to help the Ministry in any way I can," she answered. Then she smiled. "Now that the formalities are out of the way," she said, "welcome back to Hogwarts, Mr. Potter, Mr. Weasley. Do sit down." Harry and Ron complied, seating themselves in the chairs in front of the Headmistress's desk. Harry took a moment to glance around. He'd been afraid coming back up to this office would bring back memories, but in truth, enough was different that it brought back nothing more than a twinge of regret. The walls were painted bluish-green, and though the portraits of former Headmasters were still there (Dumbledore's was not yet among them, Harry noticed with disappointment), the rest of the decorations were very clearly McGonagall's. The most surprising was a collection in a glass case behind her desk, of figurines of thistles in every medium imaginable—glass, pewter, iron, wood, even one that looked like plastic. And—Harry squinted, trying to see more clearly—was that a carving of Edinburgh Castle? "So, gentlemen," McGonagall said, snapping Harry back to the matter at hand, "your superior informed me by owl this morning that you have some very grave news to tell me. May I know what it is?" Ron opened the case and brought out a piece of parchment, leaning forward to pass it to McGonagall. "This is the report of what happened," he said, "but I'm afraid, Professor, that the long and the short of it is that Malcolm Baddock's parents and baby brother were murdered last night, apparently by Death Eaters." Harry suddenly sat bolt upright, realisation hitting him. There had been no Dark Mark at the Baddocks' house. Or had there? He didn't remember whether it was in the Forensics report Hermione and Domina had put together, and it might have dissipated before he and Ron had been called in. He'd have to remember to look it up. There was a niggling feeling in the back of his mind that this could be very important. McGonagall had gone very pale at Ron's information, and sat back in her chair. "Murdered?" she repeated, clutching the parchment in her hand so hard it wrinkled, but not looking at it. "Yes," Ron said quietly. "Apparently with the Killing Curse. It's all there in the report, Professor, but we wanted to tell you as quickly and quietly as we could, and let you or Malcolm's head of house break the news to him, as gently as possible." McGonagall set the parchment down on her desk, pulled her glasses off, and covered her eyes with her hands. "I thought it was over," she said in a soft, slightly muffled voice. Harry exchanged glances with Ron. In their seven years at Hogwarts, neither of them had ever seen McGonagall so emotional. "I thought once You-Know… once Voldemort was gone, we could have a little peace." She took a deep breath, collecting herself, then sat up again and put her glasses back on. "Very well," she said, still shakily but with a hint of her usual firmness. "I shall call Mr. Baddock up to me and tell him the terrible news. I don't suppose we have any information on where he'll go for—for holidays and such? Any next of kin?" "The Ministry is working on that right now," Harry said. "They'll be contacting you as soon as they've got hold of his family." "Of course," the headmistress said. She seemed much more in control of herself now, to Harry's relief. "Then I shall tell him—" She stopped suddenly, frowning at Harry. "Harry, what has happened to your scar?" Harry felt a jolt of fear startle through him, and he cursed under his breath. "Glamour," he said, drawing his wand from his wrist sheath and touching his forehead with it, muttering the counterspell. The cold shimmered through his forehead again, and he knew without a mirror that the lightning bolt was again visible. "Thank you, Professor. I keep it hidden when I'm on duty, to make it harder to identify me. I meant to reveal it once we got here, in case I saw someone who knew me as Harry, not Onyx, but it slipped my mind." "Flaming Nora, Harry, that's twice," Ron said seriously, staring at his best friend. "You'd best be more careful, mate. What if someone we knew had come through the door?" "I know, I know." Harry put his head in his hands. There had just been too much to take in over the past day or so. I can't take all this, he thought weakly. I'm going out of my mind. It's too much, Ginny and the attack and… and everything… But he had to. Ergo, he would. It was just as simple as that. He took a deep breath and raised his head again. McGonagall stood. "Well, Mr. Weasley, Mr. Potter, thank you for coming to visit me in person. I shall take it from here—unless you wish to be present when I speak with Mr. Baddock?" "No," Ron said firmly, also rising. Harry followed suit. "He knows us. I'd rather we not blow our cover as officers of the Department unless absolutely necessary." "Quite understandable, I assure you." McGonagall came out from behind her desk. "I'm sure I shall see you both again, though I can only hope it will be under more pleasant circum—" A frantic pounding sounded on the door, as if two or three people were desperate for entrance. "Headmistress!" a voice called—one Harry vaguely recognised, but couldn't place. "Headmistress!" McGonagall looked startled. "Enter!" she called. The door opened, and Professors Flitwick and Sinistra came in. Flitwick had always looked somewhat tousled and a bit flighty, but Professor Sinistra, the Astronomy witch, had never been anything but cool and collected. Now she looked nearly as harried as Flitwick. "Headmistress," Sinistra said, wringing her hands, "it's terrible—I don't know what to say—my first year as Slytherin's Head of House—" "Awful!" Flitwick squeaked. "Simply awful!" "Calm down," McGonagall ordered. Harry and Ron backed off slightly, giving the three of them some space. "One at a time. Professor Sinistra, what's going on?" Sinistra swallowed. "Two of my students are gone," she said tersely. It had been her voice calling through the door, Harry realised. "Vanished. They never came back from Hogsmeade, and nobody knows where they've gone. The other students in their dormitories didn't notice they were missing until this morning." "The same thing has happened in Ravenclaw!" Flitwick shrilled urgently. "One of my best students, Anthony Snodgrass—seventh-year, you know, was taking Charms for his N.E.W.T.s, quite an excellent student—and he just vanished into thin air, not a trace of him left since he left for Hogsmeade—" "Professor Flitwick, calm down," McGonagall said again. She went back around to sit at her desk, taking out a piece of parchment and a quill. "Now. You say Anthony Snodgrass has gone missing?" "Yes!" Flitwick said desperately. "And Professor Sinistra, which two of your students are missing?" The tall woman took a deep breath. "Morgan Jones and Malcolm Baddock." "Baddock?" Harry blurted. He felt as if someone had hit him in the solar plexus. "Baddock's missing?" All three professors' gazes turned to him. "Mr. Potter," Flitwick said, startled. "Mr. Weasley. I didn't notice—" "Yes," Sinistra answered, cutting Flitwick off. Her eyes narrowed. "Why?" "Potter and Weasley are working for the Ministry now," McGonagall said smoothly. "They have come on some other, rather urgent, business, but I think this supersedes even that. Please tell me, and them, everything you know; I think you'll find they can help." She levelled a gaze at Harry and Ron, and Harry felt the weight of it: if Baddock's parents were dead and Baddock was missing, what was the likelihood of the fifth-year boy being found alive? "It's the same with both of us," Sinistra said, indicating herself and Flitwick. "Our students reported the missing ones this morning, first thing. A check all over the House revealed nothing. Nobody remembered seeing any of the missing students since yesterday, in Hogsmeade. As soon as we had that much information, we came straight to you." Harry glanced at Ron, and was relieved to see that he'd already taken a blank piece of parchment out of the bag and a Quick-Quotes Quill as well, and had the Quill jotting down notes—set on the highest truth level it possessed. "Does anyone remember exactly when the students were last seen?" Ron asked, watching the quill as it wrote neatly across the page, though not nearly as quickly as Rita Skeeter's had. "Several of my students say they saw Anthony in the Three Broomsticks at about noon," Flitwick put in. "Nobody seems to have seen him since." "Professor Sinistra?" She shook her head. "Nobody has any idea of the time they saw Malcolm or Morgan," she said helplessly. "At least, none of them are admitting to it." Harry looked up sharply, as did Ron. "Do you think someone knows and isn't talking?" Harry asked. "I don't know," Sinistra moaned, pressing her palms against her forehead. "I don't know! They're Slytherins, aren't they? If it weren't for Snodgrass being gone as well, I'd be tempted to think this was some great prank. But it can't be, can it?" "It's… highly unlikely," Ron admitted, glancing at Harry, who nodded. A fifth-year student's family murdered and he himself gone missing; two seventh-year students also gone missing; Death Eater recruitments gaining ground in Britain. It was a frightening combination of circumstances. "We'll need to interview the members of the different houses," Ron said, more to Harry than to the professors. Harry shook his head. "We're too close," he said firmly. "They know us here, remember? We need to go back and report, and have the Department send someone else out. It's the only way; the Slytherins would lie to us just because we were in Gryffindor." McGonagall was nodding silently. "I'm afraid Mr. Potter is right," she said to the distraught professors. "But rest assured that we will be doing everything in our power to find these students. Go back down to your Houses, please; I promise I will keep you informed." Reluctantly, Sinistra and Flitwick went back out the door toward the moving stairway. Harry watched them go, then turned to McGonagall once the door was shut. "Professor, we've got to go back now," he said urgently. "If Baddock is missing—" "Yes," she said, "yes, I quite understand. Please, don't stand on ceremony—but do keep me informed, won't you? Even if it's information that I can't pass on to—" A sharp pop interrupted her, and a message cylinder appeared on her desk. She stopped abruptly, startled, then picked it up, peering at the writing on the outside. "It's addressed to the two of you," she said, holding it out. Harry took it and opened it, and he and Ron read the message together. Return to Headquarters immediately. Situation dire. Two more attacks on families of Hogwarts students. Victims identified as Daffyd, Sioned, and Hugh Jones, and Walter, Jo-Anne, Mary, and Deborah Snodgrass. Inform Headmistress. Twilight. Silently, Harry handed the note to McGonagall. She read it, turning even paler than she had when told of Baddock's family. "All three?" she whispered, a hand to her chest. "All three families attacked? And their children missing?" She near-collapsed into the chair that Harry had vacated. He bent over her, concerned, but she waved him away. "I'll be fine," she said rather unconvincingly. "You two must get back to the Department." "We will," Harry said firmly, "in a moment." He walked to her fireplace, found her container of Floo powder, and threw it onto the fire. "Poppy Pomfrey!" he called into the emerald flames. There was a moment, and then the nurse stepped out of the fireplace. "Mr. Potter! Mr. Weasley! What are—oh!" For she'd just seen the headmistress. The nurse rushed to her side. "Minerva—are you all right? What's wrong?" Harry interrupted. The cold anger he'd been feeling earlier was back, and it lent him a confidence he didn't truly feel. "Professor McGonagall, since Madam Pomfrey is already bound by the rules of patient confidentiality, you may tell her what she needs to know about the situation in order to treat you, though I know you will not share information with anyone else. She'll be all right?" he asked, turning to Madam Pomfrey. "I'm sure she will," the nurse said. "Once I find out what's got her into such a state. Are you two leaving?" "We've got to," Ron said, holding out the parchment case. "There's no time to explain." Harry took hold of one side of the Portkey, and Ron tapped it with his wand. "Reverto!" he called, and the hook behind Harry's navel jerked him forward again, through the swirling mist of Portkey travel and toward the confusing muddle of information waiting for them at the Ministry. A/N: Here comes the roller-coaster ride. Hang on, my friends, it's barely begun. Thanks, as always, to Michele40, Sherylyn, ProfessorJo, Imogen, and Doc Weasley—and to all my reviewers, as well. The payoff's on its way, but not before a few more twists and turns hit. Are you enjoying Heal the Pain? Come join my ! I'd love to see you there.
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