The Slave to Desperate Men

Chapter Five: After the Agony in Stony Places, Part One

After the torchlight red on sweaty faces

After the frosty silence in the gardens

After the agony in stony places

The shouting and the crying

Prison and palace and reverberation

Of thunder of spring over distant mountains

He who was living is now dead

We who are living are now dying

With a little patience ...

My friend, blood shaking my heart

The awful daring of a moment's surrender

Which an age of prudence can never retract

By this, and this only, we have existed

Which is not to be found in our obituaries

Or in memories draped by the beneficent spider

Or under seals broken by the lean solicitor

In our empty rooms

(The Waste Land, What The Thunder Said, By T.S. Eliot)

July 30, 2002

Long after nightfall

It was cold.

With the setting of the sun, an unnatural wind had picked up from the North and circled around their camp as though it belonged to the tents and the dead grass and the raised, torn flags of freedom. It smelled of oil and copper.

A record low for the end of July. Muggles in surrounding communities locked their doors and would not sleep that night. They had not lived, as the Wizarding World had, with the darkness which spread itself across the Land of the Far Horizons since Voldemort's body had been burned. It made their hearts cold and many Muggle children awoke with the nightmares.

The DA camp was quiet, full of the wounded, waiting for morning and the medical aid it would bring. Most of those able had been dispatched east, and were being Portkeyed to Germany at that moment. Night had fallen hours before, and darkness consumed even the stars. The only light came from a small magical fire on the north perimeter, underneath a tree pockmarked from thrown curses.

Neville Longbottom stared at the mug of tea in his shaking hands. He'd been replaying his conversation with William Avery over and over in his mind for the past forty-five minutes. The Bet. It had been a hopeless bet, really. Made during hopeless times - Harry had been considered dead, Hermione was off Merlin knew where, trying to prove he wasn't. Snape had recently been discovered as a spy and wasn't expected to live past the end of the week. The Death Eaters were growing in power and number every day, and Hogwarts had been closed. And Professor Sprout ... But Neville shook his head at that memory. To top all of it, Dumbledore had fallen ill with a magical disease Madame Pomfrey to this day pondered over. Dark times, indeed. His parents had known nothing to the despair the wizarding world felt only three years ago.

And there Neville had sat, Arthur Weasley to his right and Remus Lupin to his left. In front of them - six Death Eaters desperate for information on Dumbledore's Order. And Crucio and Crucio, and on and on, casual and light as though the curse were a simple word like "quill" or "bunny" or "Popsicle."

It was the first time Neville had ever heard anything about a phoenix and secret meetings and undercover operations. He'd suspected, of course. However, suspicions were quite beyond him at that point. Blood was pouring out of Remus' mouth where he'd bitten his tongue. Arthur's voice had given out into an agonized rasp that Neville still heard every now and then in the breeze that whistled past his ears. For Neville, it wasn't as much the pain that paralyzed his thoughts and breath, but more the screams of his parents that echoed around his head and bled out his eyes by way of tears.

It was not the first time Neville Longbottom had been exposed to the Cruciatus Curse, and it certainly wouldn't be the last. He'd seen and done many things since that capture, and the man no longer held the emotional attachments to the curse that he had at that time. Now, it was one more spell to deflect. One more scream to endure. One more body to push over in order to get to a grasping hand or a useful weapon.

When the curses were over, and the three men were left to themselves, Remus, laying spread eagle on the bloodied concrete floor, had said, "It's a bit odd, really."

Neville didn't really care. The obligatory question of "what?" passed him by while a battle waged in his head over concern for the Minister of Magic, who was drifting in and out of consciousness, and concern about his own bones and skin, which seemed to be cramping and settling in the most unsettling of ways.

Evidently, Remus didn't need the obligatory question, and his answer only led Neville to broaden his concern for the wizard and think they would never get out alive if Remus went insane.

"Lily, she sings in the Curse. That song she used, she used to sing under her breath when she was tying her shoes or looking at gardenias in her back lawn or walking along the hallway with her hand tracing the wall, slow and steady, slow and steady, she used to say, D'you remember, Prongs? Slow and steady ..." And he laughed an awful, hollow laugh that made the hairs on Neville's arms stand up.

That was, of course, the moment that Avery had shown. Older since Neville had last seen him in the Department of Mysteries. Hunched. Really rather OLD, Neville had thought.

"Bloody brilliant," Neville had said. "And what do you want?"

Avery glowered. "It is pointless to hide, Mr. Longbottom. Things are turning out of your favor. Rather quickly, I might add."

"Good to know, good to know. Well, if you don't mind, I'm hardly HIDING. I've got a lunatic werewolf and a comatose politician in the cell with me and nowhere to go. So go along then and bother someone else."

Avery's bushy white eyebrows knotted together and his eyes were like cold black coals. But his cheeks were all wrinkly and sagged down to his chin, and his right hand shook beneath his cloak. "What a sad little boy," the man had commented softly, a sardonic grin lifting his cheeks to just above his lower lip. "And what a sad little life you must lead."

At this point, Remus began to hum. The werewolf closed his eyes and lifted his arms above his head and smiled through his song.

They both paused a moment and then Avery began to laugh. It was more of a cackle, really, that made Neville close his eyes and wonder how Remus could still hum through it. And then Avery began to cough loudly. Neville winced. He watched the Death Eater dab his mouth with a handkerchief, watched the shaking hand, and then the spot of blood as Avery returned the cloth to his pocket. And then Neville sighed almost mournfully, because he knew that they were all lost, really.

"I wouldn't presume to have a life nearly as sad as yours, sir," Neville replied quietly. "Nor as empty. Now, you've got to go and deal with your minions and your killing and your dark thoughts, and here I will listen to beautiful music and know that I've done all I could."

Avery stared at him for a moment, and then said, "The war will be over before it's begun. And you'll not live to see the end of it."

"The war began a long time before any of us understood the nature of darkness, old man. And it will continue long after either of us leave this world."

"The Dark Lord will not be defeated."

"Ah!" said Neville with a sudden enthusiasm, for he was a betting man, and this certainly seemed like the perfect situation to lay a wager.

Avery was startled. "What are you smiling at?"

"I bet you 5,000 Galleons that Voldemort doesn't even live to see ... oh, let's say my 21^st."

"Your 21^st?" Avery asked, momentarily forgetting himself.

"Well, my birthday, of course. I'm only 19, now. But when I'm 21, I've a scholarship to go to New York City. They've a really wonderful botany program there -"

"5,000 - 'tis a lot of money for a boy. Only two years then? Well, that doesn't give your Dumbledore much time, now does it?"

"A lot can happen in two years, and that's a sure bet if there ever was one."

At this Avery laughed, though less like a cackle this time, and said, "You remind me of your father, you do. None of this nonsense. I've more pressing issues on my agenda for this afternoon. But you've got yourself a deal, Mr. Longbottom, though I doubt you'll live long enough to carry it out."

And then he was gone, and Remus had stopped singing, and Neville had fallen asleep. The next time he'd open his eyes, he'd see Ron's big blue eyes staring back at him, and there would be blood on the floor, and lots of screaming.

Neville shivered, bringing himself back to the present.

Now he was alone. The old man was dead, but there wasn't enough energy to care either way. The Death Eater had lived a lot longer than most of Neville's friends.

And that's when the pendant around his neck began to glow a bright blue, and silently, Neville moved from his perch and extinguished the fire. The air of the camp had suddenly turned uneasy. The wind had stopped.

Neville sighed a breathy sigh, and shook his head. 'And so it's started, when it should be long over,' he thought, and closed his hand over the pendant. Resignedly, he began to creep towards the center of camp.

It started to rain.

"It's going to be a long night," he muttered to himself.

Perhaps it was the way his hand felt as he rested it on her forehead when he asked if she was bleeding.

Or maybe the cut on his left eyebrow that made his eyes stand out in the dark.

Or the scar that marked his forehead. That marked his life. Hermione remembered a plastered Ginny saying once, chocolate ice cream on her cheek and a bottle of Chardonnay in her hand, "Harry doesn't need any of the good looks he was given. He could look like bloody Corny Fudgey and still all he'd have to do is lift up his hair and half-wit girls would say 'Oh Harry how lovely how WONderful won't you come for a bloody drink darling and perhaps a bit of shagging oh meet my bloody girlfriends Tiffy Riffy and bloody Miffy of course won't you take a picture with us'." After which she'd promptly fallen off the bed and into hysterical laughter, followed by a quick run to the loo and loud vomiting. She'd emerged moments later with a grin and, "All right, then, who's up for martinis?"

The air felt cold on her damp skin. There was no moon. No stars. Almost as though the darkness of the era had created a vacuum of light.

A dead star.

A black hole, as both Muggles and Wizards called it. Hermione thought back to her school days. Event horizons and photon spheres. It all meant nothing now.

It was a look, really, that had them standing there, unable to turn away. The wind whipped her hair against her cheek, made their cloaks gather around their knees and blow out around them. One look.

And there was Ginny. And there was little Sara. And Emma's whimpers: "Mummy, don't cry" and "Mummy, don't fight with Daddy" and screams and screams and William Granger yelling "Claire, grab Sara and Emma! Go!" As though it were some sick twist of fate. As though HE knew. And "Hermione, come dear. Grab that, there you are, that's my girl."

And there was Emma.

When all had gone black in the world. When everything seemed lost, there was Emma. Shining blonde hair and her daddy's blue eyes and giggles that mingled with Sara's in the summer afternoons that seemed to last forever. Hermione had never thought a human being could feel so much love until she'd held her baby girl. Screaming and twisting and "Merlin, she's hideous!" Seamus had said with a grin, scrunching up his face and placing his wand over the baby's chest to check for abnormalities.

It all seemed a disaster. But for all of the wretchedness of it, the hollow eyes and the cold fingers that gripped and gripped and then fell away, at least she knew that it was worth something.

He was the first to turn away.

It was only then that Hermione realized exactly where they had landed: a play park, only partially lit by the street lamps on its perimeter. Harry began to walk towards a closed gate. "Where did he say he'd sent the letter?" he asked quietly, and the wind seemed to pick up his voice and carry it over them.

"It should be at your bedroom window," Hermione told him for the second time that night. She followed after him.

The owl they'd received from Ron just that afternoon had been incredibly vague, though rightfully so. Only Urgent Owl Post was allowed near the battlefields, and even those were very small scraps of paper, allowing for few words. Ron knew that Dumbledore's protection remained over the Dursley's home in Little Whinging, and he knew that it was well enough away from Death Eater activity for an errant owl to be undetected. His message had been short and to the point:

Ginny and Sara dead. Went to Granger's. Found urgent letter. Look to your bedroom window, Harry. And hurry. - R

When Ron had gone missing after finding Ginny and Sara dead at their cottage, both Harry and Hermione had immediately begun to worry. But the onslaught of battle and the presence of Voldemort had prevented them thus far from attempting a decent search. Now, it seemed, Ron had gotten himself into a lot more trouble than they had bargained for.

They put a Shrinking Spell on their brooms and not for the first time Hermione wished that she'd been able to acquire a Portkey from the Ministry. But there had been little time, and she knew it might have taken a couple of days, and every minute ... She wouldn't think about the possible consequences of their having left the battlefield so late. Hermione cursed Ron and his bloody stunts of heroics, knowing he was grieving and wondering if he had eaten or slept, wondering if his grief had made him self-destructive. She shook her head and mimicked Harry as he climbed over the gate. And it was then that Hermione finally noticed the pallor of his skin, the sheen of sweat on his brow. His hands were trembling.

His eyes were black.

They began walking down the street.

"Harry?" she asked.

But he did not answer. They walked a few more moments in silence. His breaths were shallow and she could hear them through the wind.

"Harry?" she implored.

And this time he turned. And she knew.

"You great prat! What have you done?!" She stopped and grabbed his arm, her cheeks growing pink with anger as he winced.

"Hermione -"

"How dense can one wizard be?" she asked heatedly. "What the hell were you thinking?!" because even though he'd pulled away from her, she could smell the stench of fresh blood. They had been riding for four hours at least.

Harry kept walking, and Hermione bit her lip. "All right, then," she said mostly to herself. "I'll follow after and pick up the pieces. Stupid prat."

When they reached an alleyway, Harry turned into it. Here, his eyes darted from one shadow to another, and he reached for her hand, silently encouraging her to walk faster. His hand was clammy and cold, and Hermione wondered how he was still managing to stand up and how long he'd been hurting.

Finally, they turned onto Privet Drive and stopped. Hermione reached into the pack strapped to Harry's back and pulled out a cellular telephone. She turned it on and handed it to him.

He was out of breath. They were walking again. She thought she saw a moving shadow near the edge of a garage, but was distracted by Harry's voice.

"It's Harry ... I need to stay over the night ... Well, tell them they haven't got a choice in the matter, we'll be there any second ... Fuck, Dudley, I don't know ... Fine." He flipped the phone closed and handed it back to her.

Power Off.

Shallow breaths.

Hermione had never been to Number Four Privet Drive.

As they walked up the drive, she hated it. She hated the hydrangea bushes and she hated the green lawn that reflected in the street lamps and she almost asked if they could turn around, but then Harry's façade seemed to have finally fallen away, and he was having a hard time standing up straight.

He was home.

Two knocks on the door, and she found a burly 22 year old man standing before her, face stern, arms crossed. And Hermione was taken aback by his eyes. It had been a long while since she'd looked into eyes that had not become haunted by war.

He looked at them hard. Finally, "Harry."

"Big D," Harry muttered beside her. "Well, are you going to let us in, or shall I just sleep on my own front steps?"

Dudley only grunted and walked into the house, leaving the front door open behind him. Hermione followed Harry into the house. It smelled of cheap potpourri and roast beef. He immediately began climbing the stairs. One wince, and she was by his side, supporting half his weight as they finished the walk to his old bedroom, which had surprisingly been left alone by the Dursleys.

They both dropped their packs and Harry collapsed down into his bed.

Hermione looked around. "So this is it?"

"Would you like some tea? A crumpet?" A weak attempt at a joke. There was blood on his sheets now.

Hermione did not laugh. She walked over to the bed and slowly lifted his black shirt.

She closed her eyes. "Harry."

"I'm sorry."

"Why?"

"I didn't think ... I didn't want to wait -"

"Harry, you're going into shock."

"I think the pain relieving charm's just worn off."

Hermione clenched her fists in anger and mentally counted to ten.

"The letter -"

"Don't talk," she said harshly. "I've almost lost one of you, and here you're trying to leave me as well."

Retrieving her pack, she pulled out a small book of Healer's Spells.

And when she glanced again at his form, his eyes were glazed. White hands were clenching and unclenching. He looked lost to her. "Harry?" softly.

"Yes."

"You've got to stay with me. Talk to me."

Pause.

"I'm remembering."

"Tell me."

"Aunt Marge." And that was all he said.

Yes, most certainly lost. But she thought she knew ... this would not be the first time that Harry's bed sheets were stained with blood spilled from the curse of another wizard.

He was remembering. She continued with her ministrations. And let him slip past, staring at the eggshell colored envelope sitting propped on Harry's windowsill.

End Chapter Five