The Lost Element

The Lost Element

Chapter 2

The rain pattered softly against Harry’s window as a summer storm raged, the occasional thunderclaps breaking the comforting silence of his bedroom. At least on days like today there was nothing the Dursleys could find for him to do; he had helped Aunt Petunia clean the house from top to bottom just a few days before.

When they didn’t have chores for him, his relatives left him alone, which suited Harry just fine. Shut up in his room, he could almost pretend the Dursleys didn’t exist; aside from yanking open the door every morning to tell him to get up, they never came into his room. Here he could be safe from their hateful glares and biting comments about his abnormalities.

He could also get his homework done without the use of a flashlight.

Harry carefully proofread his Potions essay, searching for any mistakes or inconsistencies he had missed while writing. Professor Snape’s twisted joy in taking excessive amounts of points for even the smallest mistakes was well known, as well as the double deductions on Harry’s essays. Being responsible for throwing Gryffindor House into the negative point range would not bode well for his relationships with his house-mates.

There were only a few lines left of the essay to mark when Uncle Vernon’s voice carried from downstairs. “Boy! Get down here now!”

Harry reluctantly slid his books under the bed and ran down the hall, curious as to what Uncle Vernon wanted. This morning he had been ordered to stay out of sight in his room and had been glad for a chance to work on his homework. There was probably a guest at the door and Harry was required to make an appearance. Harry figured the new neighbors from across the street were here; they couldn’t miss him out in the yard doing chores.

Instead of the middle-aged couple he was expecting, a small throng of robed figures crowded the tiny foyer. He stopped at the top of the stairs, stunned. Minerva McGonagall was standing between a sour-looking Snape and an anxious Mrs. Weasley. He recognized them almost immediately, as well as the two serious looking redheads standing behind a man in a lime-green suit topped with a bowler hat: Cornelius Fudge, Minister of Magic.

Arthur Weasley looked up, a forced smile the only expression on his lean face. “Ah, Harry—there you are.”

Professor McGonagall peered over her glasses at him. “Potter, would you join us please?” Her face, as usual, was a study of sternness, but there was a worried glint in her eyes that bothered him.

Harry immediately started forward, too stunned to question an order from his head of house. He stopped before her, ignoring the steady gazes from the others in the crowd, and studiously avoiding Snape’s burning eyes. She would tell him the truth if anyone would.

Molly Weasley, who was standing next to her, seized Harry in a strong hug. “It will be okay, Harry,” she whispered softly in his ear. She clung to him as if he was soon to face his executioner, and Harry felt the first twinges of anxiety deep within his stomach.

“Molly dear,” Arthur interceded.

Mrs. Weasley released Harry from her bear hug, but kept a firm grip on his hand as she maneuvered him to stand between herself and Professor McGonagall. Harry looked up at the tall woman who was pinning the Dursleys with a glare that suggested she had never looked upon anything more distasteful in her life. While Vernon Dursley was now a splendid shade of purple and Petunia ghostly pale, they both had scraped up the courage to stare back at her. Harry idly wondered how long they would last against the schoolmistress, but his curiosity as to what the odd assortment of wizards were doing there took precedence. “Professor, what’s going on?”

“The Ministry of Magic is here to interrogate you about the Third Task,” McGonagall replied grimly, shifting her steely stare to the Ministry Men, who visibly flinched. Apparently the willowy witch’s temper preceded her, and Harry was suddenly thankful she was on his side.

Harry swallowed, his mouth having gone suddenly dry. Hadn’t he had to relive that night enough? He’d already told Dumbledore what happened.

“Oh no, Minerva,” the jovial voice of Fudge exclaimed. “We just need to hear his side of the story. Just a bit of friendly questioning.”

“It is in my experience, Minister,” Snape snarled, his hackles raised, “that Veritaserum is never friendly.”

Fudge was momentarily taken aback at the pale man’s aggression, but shook his head. “Now Harry,” he began brusquely, “this is rather commonplace. All we need you to do is take a little Veritaserum and answer some questions for us.” He sighed. “It’s protocol for emergence of the Dark Arts, really.”

Harry stared at him dumbly. “But I told this all to Headmaster Dumbledore!”

Professor McGonagall moved to stand directly behind him, radiating strength as she placed a comforting hand on his shoulder. “I know Harry,” her voice was soothing. “The Headmaster even put it in his Pensieve and let the Ministry men look at it. But,” her voice hardened as she glared at Fudge again over his shoulder, “even the memories of a man as great as he is does not suffice for the Ministry authorities.”

Fudge flinched and the room fell silent.

Percy, who had been standing at his father’s elbow, spoke up. “Due to the Underage Wizarding Protection Act of 1782, and the Treatise of Young Wizards of 1534, a wizard still receiving a magical education cannot be interrogated by any means without a guardian present. If Veritaserum is used, a fully qualified potions master must also be present.”

Snape nodded, scowling down at Harry, although not as ferociously as before. There was something akin to sympathy in the sallow face’s expression. “As you might have guessed, Potter, I’m the Potions Master. Because your guardians,” he cast a baleful glare at the Dursleys, who were now edging towards door to the family room, “have very little knowledge of your magical welfare, Professor McGonagall and Mrs. Weasley are here as your guardians.”

Harry nodded.

Fudge went on. “Harry, Aurora Glenn is the head of the Criminal Investigations department at the Ministry,” the short dark-haired woman in a faded blue velvet cocktail gown nodded at him. She had a shrewd calculating look to her that Harry didn’t like at all—it reminded him of a cat preparing to pounce. “She and I will be doing the actual questioning.”

“Aims is an Auror and Salvatore is a hit-wizard; they’re here for protection. Arthur Weasley, as our resident Muggle expert, was kind enough to lead us here, and the younger Mister Weasley will be recording the minutes of our conversation.” Percy gave Harry a cool, emotionless glance. He was apparently in full Ministry mode.

Fudge clapped his hands sharply. “Very well then, now that everyone’s been introduced, let’s get on with it.”

Aurora Glenn walked up to Harry, raking him over with hard brown eyes. There wasn’t so much of a glimmer of change in her expression as she stared at him. “If you’ll just follow me please.”

Harry followed her into the front parlor, which seemed remarkably small when all of the others had filed in—the Dursleys only after some sickeningly nice urging from the two goons, who both wore passable muggle clothing.

Aurora motioned to Vernon’s recliner. “Please have a seat, Mr. Potter.”

While he had never been allowed in that chair before in his life, Harry managed to sit down in it without looking completely out of place. The investigator sat down on the couch directly across from him—Fudge on one side of her and Percy on the other.

Arthur Weasley pulled the blinds closed and switched on the lamps before he stood uneasily next to his wife and the Hogwarts Professors, who had all taken up positions against the wall where they could see Harry’s face. The Auror and the hit wizard lounged indolently against the doorframe, looking bored, and the Dursleys were as far away from everyone as they could get while still remaining in the room, Dudley trying to hide behind his parents. While he had gotten somewhat smaller (thanks to the Smeltings’ nurse’s starvation diet), his bulk was still plainly visible.

Harry directed his attention to Aurora Glenn, who was speaking quietly with Percy. Percy pulled a tablet and a quill out of the briefcase on the small coffee table. He stuck the tip of the quill in his mouth for a moment before allowing it to scribble something on a spare piece of parchment before him.

Fudge was carefully pouring a few drops of liquid from a tiny vial onto a small biscuit. Harry had seen Madam Pomfrey use them many times when administering potions in very small doses. Snape’s long face twitched slightly. “May I examine the potion,” he questioned.

Fudge looked up at him. “The Ministry’s Potions Master is qualified to brew this potion, Professor Snape.” He added another drop to the wafer. “It’s perfectly safe.” He managed to look offended. “Do you possibly think we would do anything to hurt Harry? The entire wizarding population would be out for my blood if something happened to him.” The last was said in a heavy tone, and the look he gave Harry was so utterly weary that Harry wondered exactly what had gone on the past few months he had been out of contact with the magical world.

Snape snorted softly, but said no more after the hit wizard gave him a threatening look.

Fudge corked the tiny bottle and slipped it back into his briefcase before handing Harry the wafer.

Harry reluctantly put it in his mouth, where it dissolved into nothing, leaving him with a strange light-headed sensation. He sat and waited as everyone else stared at him.

After a few minutes, Aurora Glenn cleared her throat. “All right now, we’re just going to ask you a few questions to make sure the potion is working correctly.”

Percy put his pen back on the parchment.

“To your knowledge, what is your full name?” Glenn’s voice was sharp like Professor McGonagall’s, only it held more iciness than the Professor’s ever had.

“Harry Potter.”

She lifted an eyebrow and made a mark on her scroll. “When and where were you born?”

“My birthday’s July 31, 1981, but I don’t know where I was born.” Harry had learned at a very young age never to ask questions about his life before the Dursleys, and had really never been curious as to his actual birthplace. He assumed he’d born at Godric’s Hollow, but the woman had not asked him what he thought—only what he knew.

“Very well Mr. Potter. Next question. How and when did your parents die?”

“October 31, 1982. My Dad died first—he tried to give my Mum time to get to me and run. Voldemort killed him with Avadra Kevadra, like he did my Mum when she tried to protect me.” The now-familiar sound of their voices swept quickly through his mind, but thanks to the numbing euphoria of the Veritaserum, he felt little regret. After the horrors of the Third Task, the sounds of his parents’ demise were familiar.

Aurora Glenn, however, was not happy with that answer. “How do you know that? Did someone tell you?” Her voice cracked like a whip, and Harry saw Dudley shudder at the end of the room.

“No,” Harry heard his own voice answer emotionlessly, “It’s what I hear when I’m around Dementors.”

Molly Weasley’s face paled, and Arthur placed a hand on her shoulder.

“So you don’t remember what happened that night?”

Harry paused for a long moment, trying to remember that day, but remembered nothing but a flash of green light. What, after all, were they looking for? He’d only been a year old when it had happened—how was he supposed to remember? “Just light.”

And so it continued, the questions altering between Minister Fudge and Aurora Glenn, covering he first two tasks of the Tri-Wizard Tournament, how he’d entered, how he prepared, the Yule Ball, and so forth. As the minutes ticked past, Harry felt the body numbing sensation of the truth potion spread even deeper, to the point where the only thing he could move was his mouth, and occasionally blink his eyes. He could only see what was directly in front of him—the Minister, Aurora Glenn, and Percy, scribbling furiously away on his parchment with one hand while the Quick-quotes Quill worked on another. On occasion, he could even focus his eyes to see those behind them, although after seeing tears on Mrs. Weasley’s face, he didn’t try that often.

Finally, when it seemed like Harry couldn’t tell them any more, they stopped for a moment. Percy wrapped up parchment rolls filled with his neat handwriting and dropped them into the case, and pulled out another handful of fresh rolls. Once he was situated, the questioning began again.

This time, however, they asked directly about the Third Task. Harry started at the beginning, before he even entered the maze, and told them everything he did, saw, and knew at the time. He traced every obstacle through to the center of the maze, and even included the argument he and Cedric had had over who was the rightful winner, and their eventual compromise. With only a moment’s hesitation he launched into what had happened in the cemetery. It hurt to tell them, but he wanted to; he wanted them to hear what happened there now, when he couldn’t lie. They would have to believe him now. A wish that a reporter—even one like Rita Skeeter—was in the room crossed his mind, but he discarded that quickly. Fudge would just tweak what he told the public anyway—but there were too many witnesses to claim this hadn’t happened.

The part of him that could think on his own almost relished the looks on the Ministry employee’s faces as he recounted what he’d seen, heard, and done. Fudge’s cold professionals were losing their reserve—even Aurora Glenn’s face had flickered on a few occasions.

When Harry had finally recounted what had happened and fallen silent, the room stilled. He had never felt anything so tense—with the exception of waiting to see what had come out of that Cauldron back in the graveyard, and even that hadn’t had such a pensive edge to it. The Death Eaters had known what was going to emerge after Wormtail completed the spell. Anything could happen here.

Finally, Percy rustling papers brought a sense of normalcy back to the situation. Harry, who found he had control over his own eyes again, glanced around the room. The hit-man was clenching his wand like a lifeline, and the Auror’s eyes were nervously darting from window to window, as if he expected Voldemort to come bursting through at any time.

Aurora Glenn glanced at Fudge for a moment then cleared her throat. “Well Mr. Potter,” her voice had lost its cold edge, although it was no less composed, “that is quite a story. I’d like to go back to where you mentioned this Wormtail,” she looked down at her notes. “You seemed to call him Peter at another point. Are you talking about the same?”

Before Harry could answer her, violent coughing distracted them. Cornelius Fudge was nearly convulsing as his face turned red. Once Aurora had broken off, he stopped, wiped a hand across his jaw, and asked his own question. “Champions are frequently warned of their tasks before-hand; cheating has become an unofficial tradition at the Tournament. Were you helped?”

Harry’s mind immediately protested the question. He didn’t want to answer it. How he had gotten the information about the Dragons and obtained the Gillyweed wasn’t important. All of the other Champions had also been spoon-fed clues, but Harry had a sinking feeling that his informants would receive more than a reprimand. Hagrid already had a tarnished record, and Dobby wouldn’t be able to find work anywhere else!

He tried to open his mouth to protest, but found he couldn’t. He couldn’t even move his fingers, no matter how hard he tried. Attempts to clamp his lips shut failed, too, and he heard his voice telling them all about Hagrid and Dobby’s attempts to help him, as well as Lugo Bagman’s offers and Moaning Myrtle’s assistance.

Fighting to look anywhere but at his interrogators, Harry managed to wrench his eyes to the Professors on the wall, locking eyes with Professor Snape.

The man was watching him intently in a way that even a Hippogriff would find unnerving. Harry tried to jerk his eyes to Professor McGonagall or Mrs. Weasley, but he couldn’t—they wouldn’t move off of Professor Snape.

Snape realized something; his angular brows lowered while his face darkened in a way that suggested anger. He leaned over to whisper something in McGonagall’s ear, and she paled rapidly and gave Harry a worried glance. Molly Weasley leaned around her to listen, and she too went white with worry—or anger—Harry really couldn’t tell which. Snape said something else, and fled from Harry’s line of sight.

Harry couldn’t follow his motion, but he could hear the front door slam shut, and assumed the man had left the house.

Fudge and Glenn glanced up. “Where is he going?” Fudge questioned sharply.

“He forgot about a special potion he was brewing for Dumbledore,” McGonagall covered smoothly. “It has reached a critical stage and he returned to ask his wife to see to it, he’ll be back in a few minutes.”

Fudge frowned, but didn’t press matters any further. Instead, he turned back to Harry.

Glenn was poised with a question—or rather, an order. “Tell me about this Wormtail person.”

Harry was glad to answer that one. “Wormtail is Peter Pettigrew.”

“Peter Pettigrew is dead, Harry,” Fudge roared angrily. “Sirius Black killed him 14 years ago—a street filled with Muggles saw him do it!”

Harry angered, wanting to tell Fudge that Sirius Black was indeed innocent, Pettigrew had as good as confessed to him that he’d done it in the Shrieking Shack over a year ago. But Fudge hadn’t asked him a question, and he couldn’t open his mouth on his own. Harry tried so hard to open his mouth that it hurt, but his lips felt like they were fused together with steel.

Suddenly, Fudge frowned and his eyes narrowed as he regarded Harry suspiciously. He mouthed a few words to himself, then spoke loud enough to for Harry to hear him.

“Tell me what happened with Sirius Black your third year, Harry, and tell me everything.”

It felt as if his heart was pumping molten lava through his veins instead of blood. He was so hot he could feel his insides burning as he fought against the effects of the potion. He wanted to bite down on his lip, bang his head into the table like Dobby—anything to keep from telling the Minister what he wanted to know. He’d be falling right into Fudge’s hands.

He heard Minerva McGonagall and Molly Weasley both say something, sounding worried, but Fudge deflected them, claiming it was only the potion working.

McGonagall’s voice turned angry, but Fudge’s voice rose over it, drowning her out.

Harry opened his mouth and began to talk, and the yelling stopped. He found himself stopped on several occasions as Fudge and Glenn asked him to clarify some points and repeat others. The more he talked, the more the pain receded, but it didn’t go away—it lingered in his chest and lungs—and his head. It felt as if his brain was pressing against him; he could feel the throb of his heartbeat along the top of his skull.

By the time he’d recited everything he sank against the back of the chair, wishing it would all stop. Something was wrong—very wrong. He could feel every nerve ending in his body—every hair on his head, on his arms and legs, each of his muscles ached. It hadn’t been like this before when Crouch Jr. had given him Veritaserum. He hadn’t felt anything then. He felt everything now.

And it hurt.

While he forced his lungs to draw in every shuddering breath, the room had fallen completely silent once more.

Aurora Glenn looked up and asked coolly. “Where was the last place Sirius told you he was?”

Fire swept through Harry again with greater intensity—his head whirled, and he managed to open his mouth to scream, but nothing came out.

By this time, the entire room was watching him. Professor McGonagall had stepped around the couch to check on him, Mrs. Weasley on her heels, but they stopped when the front door flew open again with a bang. A whirl of black robes in front of Harry and a sneering voice told him Severus Snape had returned. Another man stood beside him, in a dark blue cloak.

“It’s the werewolf,” the hit-wizard called out in surprise.

Aunt Petunia screamed from her corner of the room.

A pressure was building in Harry—starting in his toes and spreading through feet, past his ankles, and up his legs.

The man in the blue cloak glanced over his shoulder, and Harry realized that it was Professor Lupin. But before he could do more than recognize the man’s features, another face hovered in front of him, that of a woman.

The pressure was up in Harry’s stomach now, and he was thankful he hadn’t had much for breakfast, for fear of it coming up again.

A deliciously cool hand fell upon the side of his face, and the pain lessened just enough for him to focus on the eyes staring directly into his. Yellow and orange around the dark pupils that faded into green and then rimmed in dark blue, they were the most unusual eyes he had ever seen.

Lips beneath the eyes opened, mouthing words, but Harry didn’t hear what she was saying; he could only stare at her eyes as the pain rose into his chest—into his lungs and finally, his heart.

Then he knew nothing as the world faded into darkness.

This Chapter has ended.