One Honest Heart

25. Chrysalis Chamber

We found the broken banisters four floors up; weakened but not rotten. It was clear that whoever had leaked the blood below had been thrust through the banisters. Simple leaning wouldn't have sufficed. To my reporter's nose, the place reeked crime scene. And the stench thickened as we ventured deeper into the castle.

Of the three of us, only Henry seemed curious rather than wary. If not for his brisk pace, it would have taken us much longer to locate the source of the stench. He smelled out the corpse like some particularly elegant bloodhound. While Charles gasped and I whimpered, Henry stepped up to the dark wooden desk, drenched in scientific rubble and spilt liquids, picked up a pair of pincers and a magnifying glass and walked over to the wall to examine the chained Dementor, or what little was left of it.

It was grey and withered, its once billowing black robes hanging limp and dusty on its emaciated body. Its mouth was frozen in an otherworldly expression of terror, suggesting a scream perpetuated beyond the veil, split open at the bottom by a deep gash that disappeared beneath its ripped robes.

Something had burst forth from inside the Dementor, as though it were nothing but a chrysalis for some darker evil.

The Dementors may never have been alive, but I had never expected to see one so irrevocably dead. Nor had I expected to see Draco Malfoy (so elegant and fashion conscious in all those shots I had trawled through when researching his gossip history) look so much like an Azkaban inmate. His hair was long, greasy, tangled, and torn. The nails on his claw-like fingers had grown long and hooked. His cheeks were sunken, his skin greyish. His ribs stood out in stark relief beneath his unnaturally defined pectorals; his waist looked ready to snap. He had starved, but whether that had been the cause of death in this chamber of potential decease - poison bottles, potion jars, pointed weaponry and a chained Dementor on the walls - was not at all clear. Nothing was.

He was propped against the front of the desk; placed, not of his own volition. A trail in the dust suggested he'd been dragged from just in front of the dead Dementor. Scratches in the wood next to his hands indicated some final struggle before he had died, perhaps of starvation, perhaps of poisoning.

Henry squatted beside Malfoy, examining his left hand. 'It's been out of use for quite some time.' He turned to me. 'He was demented long before his body died.' Little did I know he was only half right.

While I remained near the entrance, still paralysed by shock, Charles moved up behind the desk. Indicating a curiously empty stretch of soiled wood, he pointed out that one of the many spilt liquids was most certainly blood, and lots of it. As he and Henry panned the surface with their flashlights, I approached. There was a pattern to the coagulation of the blackened blood. There were outlines.

And suddenly we had a new mystery on our hands: Where was the body now?

We eventually found it - him - on a king-sized bed, laid out in its centre, arms crossed across his chest, or what was left of it. He was in a curious state somewhere between decomposition and mummification. At least, Henry called it curious. I mostly found it nauseating. If not for his still present glasses and barely discernible scar, identifying Harry Potter would not have been easy. He had been dead for a long time. While Henry was certain his body had initially been preserved in some way, he was equally sure that Potter's death predated Malfoy's.

The fact that someone or something had propped Malfoy against the desk and put Potter on the bed was worrying enough. That something had also placed Potter's heart on a small bedside table was downright terrifying.

Next to the heart, I found the second journal.

We decided to look through Malfoy's chamber (as we called it then) once more before we reported our findings to the Ministry. Borrowing a demented Bellatrix Lestrange with, we firmly claimed, the best of intentions was one thing. Letting the leaders of the wizarding world learn about the death of their favourite boy hero through the pages of the Quibbler was out of the question. Ms Lovegood had made that perfectly clear. But with me being an investigating journalist, Henry an ambitious scientist, and Charles a Muggle not much bothered with wizarding procedure, they could hardly expect us to leave the crime scene untouched. We had put our lives on the line - and we wanted something in return.

Though, in retrospect, it might have been better had I left the journal for the investigators to find. Still, considering the response I got when I did bring it forward, it does seem unlikely.

And leaving my other souvenir in the state I found it certainly wasn't an option.

I was snapping some shots of the empty chamber when I heard faint breathing from behind one of the large shelves stacked with jars and bottles. Muster the courage to move a single muscle took me long enough for Henry and Charles to return and ask what on Earth was taking me so long. With them as backup, I advanced on the shelves, peered into a dark corner, and saw a small, dark figure huddled there. It looked like the insubstantial shadow of a goblin.

'Don't mind me,' it muttered, 'high'm just dis-hintegrating quietly towards my dhoom, in a dhark, dhank corner, has requested.' Its large head turned towards me, ears flapping. It stiffened, as if only then realising I was not just a figment of its morbid imagination, and it solidified, eyes glinting in the darkness. 'Hand I'm stuck. Hand horribly, horribly bored. Reminds me hoff han old goblin hit, hit does.'

Charles thought I was slaughtering a pig. Henry made it stop by pointing out that he'd be up for slaughtering some less tangible ham.

26. Death by Division

Tom Riddle had died. He had been dead. He had drifted through the world as something both more and less than a ghost, an incorporeal creature kept together by unquenchable desires, for revenge, power, a return to life. He had been a parasite, living through others, preying on the very essence of life, learning to sense the presence of other soul hunters like himself. And he knew without a doubt that the being hunting him through the dark woods was something much worse than a simple, mindless Dementor.

He staggered, stumbled, ran at intervals through the irregular undergrowth. He was too unbalanced, too unsettled by the revenge he would never get, too troubled by Potter's death to focus properly. There were wards and traps all through the woods surrounding Malfoy Manor. He couldn't Disapparate and any hex was likely to misfire. He needed to get out into the open fields, needed to get his bearings, needed to see his pursuer coming.

He had been lured into the woods. While he was wandering near the edge of the Malfoy gardens, seething with anger and disappointment, a voice had called for him.

Had he been in a more stable state of mind, he would have demanded that the speaker come to him, into the garden. As it was, he stalked into the woods, demanding an explanation that never came. And then he had sensed it. The danger, death defeated, an undead soul. The hunger. It stood between him and the garden, a dark outline against the moonlit hedges. Then, thrown to the ground by his own hex, he had turned, and he had run.

There was such immense power. Lord Voldemort had been the most powerful dark wizard in the world before his death and was no less powerful in his resurrected form. But this was power beyond magic. A primal power over life and death, ripping through the fabric of reality, a black hole in the web of life. There was an opening in the undergrowth. The woods ended. Tom Riddle lurched into the open field. And came face to face with the darkness.

'Hello, Tom,' said Bellatrix, smiling. 'Looking for me?'

Tom breathed through his nostrils, steadying himself. 'Not particularly, no. Did you - want something?'

'Dinner? Tonight?'

Tom frowned, his mind curiously sluggish. 'I'm - rather busy.'

'Yes. I noticed. And I suppose you've also been too busy to get me out of Azkaban, no?'

There was no point in answering. Tom's hand edged towards his wand. Bellatrix was unarmed.

'Still,' she continued, 'it worked out for the best, in the end.'

The world flashed green. Bellatrix crumpled. Tom turned, and stopped, eyes widening. A ghost stood before him; a spectre, a disturbance in the visual spectrum, a being of darkness, a perfect replica of Lucius's son. Tom could see him clearly, and yet his senses insisted there was nothing there. It was all in his mind. Inside him. A chill seeped into his chest. Draco's arm was stretched out before him. Tom looked down. The arm penetrated his chest.

It had a grip on his heart.

A voice hissed inside his mind. 'You destroyed our life, you heartless beast!'

Claw-like hands clutched his head from behind, long fingernails digging into his papery cheeks. 'You always were a naughty boy, Tom,' purred Bellatrix and yanked him backwards to devour his soul. His heart burst from his chest and Tom Riddle finally died from the fatal division he had suffered all his life, torn between mind and emotion.

When she was done feeding, Bellatrix turned her attention to the creature still cradling her victim's heart in its outstretched hand. 'You have me to thank, you know,' she said, 'for not leading them to you before the gestation was complete. Though,' she grinned, 'that could just have been my self-preservation instinct. I rather enjoy freedom, you see.' Her eyes narrowed. 'You tried to resurrect him didn't you, Draco dear? My poor darling Draco. It's unhealthy to get so attached. Makes your mind snap.' She turned to go. 'Still, who am I to judge you? I've grown awfully attached to this body, even if I don't need it. Like you, I'm immortal, as long as I find food to sustain me.' She turned back. 'But I suspect you don't have that problem, having gone through such a - complete transformation. Most intriguing. And, yes, I can feel it. Your power exceeds mine. But I shouldn't let it bother me, or you. You're an amoral creature, Draco, just like your father. You won't stop me. Revenge powers you. Single-minded. Like father like son.' She walked away. 'He would have killed you too, of course.' She disappeared into the mist. 'Fascinating family.'

27. The Memory of Martyrs

Like a scavenger, the Prophet pounced on the Potter murder the moment the Aurors went public with it. It was potent material - Harry Potter kidnapped and murdered by his old school adversary, the son of the infamous Lucius Malfoy, who then commits suicide by dementing himself. Even his death was a violation - of the Dementor, that poor misunderstood creature. Or, if you were less politically correct, Draco Malfoy did something admirable, at last, in both dying for his sins and taking a bloody Dementor with him into the Underworld.

The People were in mourning. Their boy hero had been slain by a dark, dragon prince (a favourite description in less reputable publications), a perverted madman who had killed when he couldn't convert - to the Dark side of magic, of sexuality. Pictures of Draco's withered form was reproduced ad nauseam. But Potter was still the dashing young Quidditch player, smiling shyly at the camera, a charmed-up reminder of the beauty that had been lost to depraved ugliness. No one cared to remember that young Mr Malfoy had once been voted one of the most beautiful wizards alive. Because he wasn't anymore. He was dead, and good riddance.

Only the Quibbler published old photos of Draco and new ones of Potter. Few people cared. The readership was cultish to begin with, outsiders in a crowded little world. Only the Quibbler dared publish the idea that something had burst out of the Dementor, that it hadn't died of starvation or sickness. Only the Quibbler noted that the corpse of Malfoy had been moved by someone. Only the Quibbler had me, and only I sought to redeem Draco Malfoy. Only I wrote stories about a tragic love affair. Only I had the diaries. And only the Quibbler would give me the benefit of the doubt. Only Luna believed me.

I was accused of having written the diaries myself, of having fabricated the story. I was unstable to begin with and the gruesome sights that had greeted me at Hogwarts had completely unhinged me. I was a tragic woman damaged by cheap romance novels, unable to come to terms with a reality of true darkness and hate. And furthermore, I was a twisted pervert trying to defile the memory of the Boy Who Lived.

Where I saw a young man half mad with grief trying to finish his boyfriend's assignments by overdosing on Polyjuice, the mainstream media - and the vast majority of witches and wizards - saw a mad murderer trying to cover up his crime until he could escape, or finish whatever dastardly experiments he had been conducting.

The general public wanted to make a martyr of their dead hero. They wanted the Boy Who Was Murdered, not the young man who might have cheated on his male companion and then suffered an accident during a domestic squabble. It wasn't romantic enough, not traditional enough, not a worthy ending to the fairytale.

The press had been turned inside out. The Prophet published fairytales, the Quibbler the truth. And only the latter dared speculate about the sudden deaths, the unexplained murders, the burnt-out Prophet offices. They were accidents, the deeds of deranged madmen and arsonists. That was what people wanted to believe. It was quite enough that He Who Must Not Be Named, whose mutilated remains had been found by a Muggle farmer, had been replaced by The Strange, the Wizarding World's very own bogey-woman. No one dared speculate that the Prince of Darkness was still at large, taking revenge on those who had published the truth about his crimes.

Or, as only I and the Quibbler would have it, the ludicrous lies.

The Quibbler suffered no accidents except a sudden drop in subscribers. Even our loonies wanted a simple world, and a dead saint to protect them.

28. In the Chill of Mourning

Hermione Granger prided herself on a practical approach to funerals: don dark clothing, mostly black; arrive late; look harried enough to repel even the most clingy fellow mourner; shed a tear but divert the earnest floods inside and drown in the rhythm of eulogy, watching the happy moments flash by. Go home and work even harder to prevent any future funeral visits.

As the priest droned in the background and Hermione daydreamt of Quidditch matches, quills, red rags and patches, a silent whisper brushed against her neck and broke the soothing rhythm of remembrances. Practical gave way to panic as icy breath chanted 'honest heart, honest heart, honest heart', beating against her mind, penetrating her chest, enveloping her shivering heart.

Hermione did not dare scream, but her mind cried out in noiseless agony. She could do nothing but wait, her heart adapting to the rhythm of the cold lament.

At least, she thought, people may cling as much as they bloody well want if I am in the coffin and quite, quite dead.

And then, her life flashed before her eyes.

29. Transformation

30. Scapegoat

I'm still uncertain about why I stayed with Henry during those last few weeks. But I'm fairly certain he stayed with me because I was a suitable research partner. He could get partners in more amorous crimes elsewhere, and easily. He didn't even make a decent attempt at hiding his affairs.

Not that I noticed, at first. I was as obsessed with the Potter case and redeeming Draco as Henry was hungry for the scientific advances Malfoy had made in seeking to resurrect his lover. We were a good team, even if we rarely if ever offered each other any direct support. Our obsessions intersected, as did our living space. The chill crept upon me slowly.

With paparazzi and reporters hunting me (the mad Malfoy-fancier) and the pay-cuts that had hit every level of the Quibbler, I relied on the protection and financial support of Henry more than ever. I couldn't leave him. I couldn't decide to sleep on the couch. And I couldn't stand the sight of his girlfriends as they came to call.

The paparazzi loved those little visits. Long, shapely legs, big breasts; it made for excellent pictures and yet another reason why I had snapped. I had been betrayed by my man. I was transferring my shunned affections onto an idealised dead gay man, one who could never betray me, a safe (if rather stiff) bet. The tabloids had a field day.

And as always, the envelope was pushed to push the putrid paper into the paying hands of The People. Dark hints of my presence in the vicinity of the peculiar crimes permitted began appearing in print, giving credence to the speculations of The People. Had I not been in the Prophet office the very same day it was torched? (I had, giving my former editor a number of pieces of my mind.) Had I not been exposed as a fraud by the very reporters who were now dead? (That rather depended on your favoured Truth, but in essence, they were correct. I could do little to quench the rumours.)

The final straw was when Henry made a joke about maybe putting me on display in the attic and charge the paparazzi an entrance fee. He did it for the amusement of his latest female catch. And right in front of me.

The following morning, there was blood splattered on Henry's silk sheets. Most of it had been spread around when I, in a daze, had picked up his still moist heart. All I was able to think was how ordinary it looked, how healthy it had been, how the dishonesty and darkness had made no mark on it. How similar it was to Potter's. An amoral machine.

'Alas,' said I to the modern, moist Yorick in my hand as the Aurors burst in. The paparazzi had heard my early morning scream. But I was silent then. In retrospect, I should have seemed more upset.

I only really missed Henry when I found I couldn't afford a decent lawyer. Not that it would have made much difference. My insisting that Malfoy was to blame endeared me to no one. Those who would turn Potter into a martyr and a saint were overjoyed that my articles could now be conclusively labelled the ravings of a madwoman, and Malfoy's journals a piece of fanatic fiction.

Still, I had some reliable counsel on my side. Something that made even my worst detractors doubt. Two judges died of sudden heart-failure trying to pronounce a death sentence (dementing was no longer politically correct, after all).

I was to be shipped off to Azkaban. And with the state of the prison, it was thought to be as good as a death sentence.

My cold counsel did not agree.

31. Flashes of Light

'He won't listen to me,' Harry sighed. 'No matter what I say, it's as if all his trust in me is gone.' Sitting straight-backed in a chair that should have encouraged loose-limbed slumber, he watched the flames caress the blackened wood in the ancient, scorched hearth. Hermione squeezed his shoulder again, reflecting with no small amount of dismay that her depressed friend was staring straight at a metaphor for his dysfunctional relationship - one that he would forever refuse to acknowledge.

But she was no longer certain that Harry was the wood turning to cinders. And it no longer seemed to matter. Draco, for all his many faults, was family - not seldom churlish but still cherished like some eccentric uncle or curious cousin.

'Give him time. It's - not a good idea to try to - impose your truth on him.'

'My truth? There's no 'my truth'! It's the truth!'

'Yes, yes,' she could see Harry was getting angry, and then there would be no reasoning with him. 'I don't doubt it. I don't doubt you! But try to see it from his perspective. I mean, you didn't sleep with him, even if you thought you did. And he can't know that you didn't - know.'

'Well, he should trust me! I'd never betray him like that! Never!'

'I know. But look at his past. He had to betray a family that had betrayed him since birth! It's all lies and deceit and betrayal. He's suspicious by nature. You know that.'

Harry was sulking. He was an expert at it.

'He's even a bit - paranoid. Which has kept the both of you alive! Just - just give him time.'

Harry sighed, again. 'I'll try. But he keeps pushing me.'

Hermione smiled. 'And you don't push him? Harry, your relationship began with a duel. Doesn't that tell you something?'

She had meant it as a joke. Mostly. But Harry was Harry and Harry got angry. He stormed up. 'Yeah, maybe it does! Maybe it tells me I should just stop pushing! Because I can't - I can't stand him looking at me as if I - as if-! So maybe, maybe I should just stop pushing, and leave!' There were tears on his cheeks as he left her house.

He never came back. And the priest droned in the background as Harry's casket was lowered into the ground, and a whisper brushed against Hermione's mind. It could no longer blame her. She had tried to soothe, to counsel, to mediate.

She had an honest heart.

And as the chill drew back, Hermione felt strangely lucky she still had any heart at all.

32. Mightier than the Truth

If I learned anything from the way the Potter murder was treated by the mainstream media, it's that people often find it easier to believe fiction than the hard, cold truth. And so, I'm turning the truth into fiction. I need to tell the world what a wonderful and real person Harry Potter was, and portray in some small way the love he and Draco shared. I must make them see the young man and not the martyr. The dead live in the memory of the living. But the living remember him all wrong. Sainthood gives birth to an Idea while destroying the person behind it.

I cannot allow that. If they want fiction, if they want a fairytale, I'll give them what they want. I'll give them fuzzy, I'll give them fluffy, I'll give them fun, and I'll force the medicine of truth down their throats with just a spoonful of fiction.

(Make that a big spoon. A ladle.)

Gobble delights in telling me of the good old days, always making sure to contrast them to the hell that is now. But perhaps one has to descend into the underworld to find the fiction behind the truth. Perhaps you have to die to truly appreciate the marvel of life.

They say the pen is mightier than the sword.

I say fiction is mightier than the truth.

And I suffer a narrative compulsion.

A pedantic form of madness.

33. Work in Progress

Chamber of Revelations, draft 1.

Draco Malfoy was a man of extremes; Malfoys often were. For instance, Gregerious Malfoy (1542-1616) turned extremity into somewhat of an art form. Of course, being a Malfoy, Gregerious displayed a singular dislike for devoting himself to anything but art made from an absolutely extreme amount of extremities. The nearby peasants from whom he harvested said extremities thought this to be a very extreme approach to art indeed. However, as Gregerious did not restrict his modelling to the use of traditional extremities, those who got their cranial protuberances cut off didn't hold their opinions about him for any extended periods of time. Those that got off with only arms and legs cut off did, however, harbour such an extreme aversion towards their artistic landlord that Gregarious Malfoy eventually died a very extreme death indeed. Though with a distinct lack of personal extremities still attached.

[D suggests cuts. G just being morbid.]

34. Falling

35. Queen of Hearts

The Dementors went mad when one of them died, just as the First One had predicted. Death brought with it life. Life brought with it feelings. Feelings brought terror. They fed on each other.

Azkaban was thrust into chaos. The Dementors, once known only for their cold silence and the terror they brought, roared, raved, and cackled their way through its dark, wet, cold corridors and ancient crevices. Azkaban was aflame with unleashed souls, a nuclear reactor of undead spirits imploding into each other. Had I been a seasoned novelist, I'd have been able to better capture the horrific splendour of this craggy, black island alight with arcane magic. As it is, I can only hint at its magnificence. These are merely the awed memories of one who saw it all from a rickety old boat on a stormy sea, scared half out of her mind.

Then I stepped onto Azkaban rock (the ferryman would have turned back had I not seen a story in the making and forced him to dock - a condemned soul forever seeking the Story; the irony is not lost on me) and with me came the end to this demented war.

The Dementor King arrived that night. It strode into the prison complex, sought out those few Dementors still alive, and killed them all.

Without the King, the Dementors would have disappeared that night, devouring themselves till there would be naught but a single self-demented creature left. The King saved them. And, as I came with the King, they offer me the special treatment befitting a Queen. Kisses all around and special treats to keep my spirits up in this soul-devouring place while I work on this, the greatest story of my career.

Today, it was one of the Lestranges, I believe. A meagre meal but I guess I should be grateful.

I'm kept in the old visiting area and they do keep on their very best behaviour when they come to keep me company. Or bring me company, whichever the King chooses. He is my constant shadow, and the reason they defer so dementedly to me.

Ah, I kill myself.

Though, being immortal, that seems unlikely. Still, this is a merrier kind of madness, I suppose. And I have so much time to work.

Honest, good work.

The First One is long gone.

I am the Queen of Hearts.

The whispers tell me so.