Harry Potter and the Archway of Torture

Chapter Three

A Bruise and a Knife

July 24-July 29, 2003

 

            The week preceding Harry’s first day back to headquarters, Harry and Ron received their O.W.L. test scores. Harry was sitting in the kitchen, early one morning, with Mr. Weasley, Fred, and George. The three Weasleys were about to leave for work, Harry had just given up on sleep. Suddenly, a tired Ron came into the kitchen, with two envelopes and an opened letter in his hand, and a smile on his face.

            “I failed Divinations,” he said, shaking the letter in his hand. “Oh thank God.”

            “You shouldn’t be happy you failed, Ron,” Mr. Weasley said, taking a sip of his tea, and accepting one of the envelopes Ron had brought in, that was addressed to him.

            “But that class was a waste of time,” Ron told his father, as he handed Harry his. Harry opened his letter and saw that he, too, had failed. But Divinations was not what he was worried about. Harry scanned down the list for Potions. Herbology . . . Charms . . . Defense— Harry had received top marks in Defense Against the Dark Arts, and a note of high praise from the examiners, along with it.

            “What did you get for Potions?” Mr. Weasley asked Ron.

            “I’m afraid to look,” Ron said, his spirit dropping.

            “What about you, Harry?” George asked Harry.

            Harry looked back down at his sheet at his Potions grade, then whispered, “I passed.”

            “Are you serious?” Ron’s mouth dropped open.

            “God help me if Ron actually did,” Fred said.

            Ron turned red and looked down. Mr. Weasley gave Fred a serious look.

            “Oh Dad, it was an open opportunity,” he justified.

            “Fred,” Mr. Weasley took another sip of tea. “I think that you should learn to leave the ‘open opportunities’ alone.” To his youngest son, who was still looking down, he said, “Ron, you shouldn’t worry, I’m sure you did well.”

            Harry looked at Ron, then took his friend’s test scores. “Let’s see . . . Ron, look,” he said when he found Ron’s Potion score.

            “No,” Ron looked at Harry’s face, “I can tell by the look on your face that it’s not good,” he mumbled.

            “In all honesty, I always look like this.” It’s depression, the tiny voice in his head told him. Harry ignored it and told Ron to look at his score sheet.

            “What did I get a D for ‘Dreadful’?” Ron said, still refusing to look.

            “Probably,” George mumbled.

            “Fred— George, go to work,” Mr. Weasley said.

            “Ron, you idiot, you passed,” Harry told him. “We both got enough to be accepted to Snape’s class this year.”

            “What?” Ron said faintly, taking the parchment from Harry. Both Fred and George opened their mouths to say something, but looked at their father and decided against it.

            “We’re on the same level, did you really expect a D?”

            “Yeah,” Ron answered. “I don’t believe it. Snape actually gave me—”

            “He doesn’t grade them, Ron, remember?” George said.

            “Well, congratulations on passing Potions, both of you,” Mr. Weasley said, now opening his letter. “Now what about your other classes?”

            Harry and Ron began to list their other classes. The only class that the two would not be returning to was Divinations.

            “And good riddance,” was Ron’s last comment on the class. “I wonder how many students there’ll be in Snape’s class this year.”

            Harry answered, “Probably about twenty in all his classes put together, including you, me and—”

            “—of course, Hermione,” Ron finished.

            Mrs. Weasley walked into the kitchen. “Oh good, you’re up already.”

            “They got their O.W.L. scores back,” George said.

            “Oh . . . how did you do? You didn’t fail anything did you?”

            “Well . . .” Ron said.

            “Well, what?” Mrs. Weasley asked.

            “They passed everything except Divinations,” Mr. Weasley said absently. He was staring grimly at the letter in front of him.

            “What’s wrong dad?” Fred asked.

            Mr. Weasley looked up, “The Ministry is thinking about replacing Fudge.”

            “Yes,” Fred and George said, throwing up their arms.

            “Who are they replacing him with?” Harry asked.

            “They aren’t sure yet, so they’re not going to do anything, or mention it to Fudge and anyone close to him, until they have at least three people who are worthy of the position.”

            “Damn,” Fred and George’s arms dropped.

            “Well, they’re going to want Dumbledore, even if he doesn’t want the position,” Ron said.

            “I’d love for Dumbledore to finally accept, but I’d also love for him to remain at Hogwarts,” Mr. Weasley said, simply.

            “We wouldn’t have to worry so much if he stayed at the school,” Mrs. Weasley said, sitting next to her husband.

            “This is going to be a big problem,” Mr. Weasley rubbed both hands over his face. “We already have enough to deal with.”

            “But we need a new Minister,” Ron stated. “We’ve seen what havoc Fudge can cause.”

            “Hopefully, the Ministry finds those replacements soon,” Harry muttered.

            “No . . . I want Fudge to crack some more, first,” Ron said back.

            “We’ll just have to wait and see what happens,” Mrs. Weasley sighed.

            Fred and George stood, “We might be late tonight.”

            “Why?” Mrs. Weasley asked.

            “Because . . . we have things to take care of,” Fred said.

            “What things?” Mrs. Weasley grew suspicious.

            “You know, like counting money, ordering things,” George shrugged.

            Mrs. Weasley still looked doubtfully at her twins as they pulled on their dragon skinned jackets.

            “Bye,” they said and left the kitchen.

            “Leave it alone, Molly,” Mr. Weasley said gently.

            She nodded and turned to Ron, “Did you get your letter of supplies, too?”

            “Yeah, surprisingly. I guess we have a Defense Against the Dark Arts Teacher,” Ron said.

            “I hope it’s not another Ministry assigned professor,” Harry said.

            “No,” Mr. Weasley said. “Since no one would take the job here, he went out of the country for this teacher.”

            “What’s his name?”

            “Her name is Alanis Benedict,” Mr. Weasley stated.

            “Oh no, not another woman,” Ron moaned. “Umbridge ruined that.”

            Mr. Weasley gave a small smile. “Don’t worry. You’ll like her.”

            “You know her?” Ron asked.

            “Yes, she works for the Order, in Russia. She joined us a few months after Dumbledore made it public that Voldemort was back.”

            “Has she ever been to headquarters?” Ron said.

            “No, we need to be careful with those outside the country,” Mrs. Weasley said. “Too many will notice if a group of people keep making visits to England.”

            “Is Charlie remaining out of the country?” Harry asked.

            “Yes,” Mrs. Weasley answered.

            “He’s found some useful people to the east,” Mr. Weasley said. “But if something serious starts, Dumbledore’s pulling everyone here. He has a way of calling everyone quickly to him,” Mr. Weasley said.

            “Charlie will be visiting for Christmas, though,” Mrs. Weasley said. “And you and your sister will be coming home for Christmas, as well,” she said to Ron. “And if Harry wants, he can come, too.”

            Harry gave Mrs. Weasley as much of a smile as he could manage.

            “I’m surprised Lupin isn’t up yet,” Ron said. “He’s usually awake by now, even if he’s tired.”

            “I think Remus left early this morning.”

 

 

 

 

His arm was soar and, he knew that liquid covering it was blood. He tried to get to his hands and knees, again, and felt fresh blood under his fingers. On his hands and knees, blood dripped from his shoulder onto his hand and the cold, stone ground. The blood squished between his fingers, as he tried to stay up. It did not bother him. Only one thing bothered him: the taste in his mouth and his missing past.

            Whatever had been in his mouth, it was disgusting. The taste lingered. Did he swallow it, or spit it out? He could remember nothing. Why could he not remember anything that happened two minutes before? It was enough to drive him crazy, but his pride would help him remain sane.

            He started to move forward, he needed something against his back, besides a ground. He prayed for something, as he moved slowly. His hand hit something in front of him on the ground. He picked it up. Whatever it was, it was skinny in the middle, light, and, of course, it too had blood on it. He dropped it, not curious enough to figure out what it was. But he was too weak to continue any further. His body could not handle this.

            He fell back to the stone, for the second time. He drifted back to sleep, before remembering that he should not. Because, in the back of his mind, darkness and emptiness was growing.

ﾈﾈﾈﾈﾈﾈﾈﾈﾈﾈﾈﾈﾈﾈﾈﾈﾈﾈﾈﾈﾈﾈﾈﾈﾈﾈﾈﾈﾈﾈﾈﾈﾈﾈﾈﾈﾈﾈﾈﾈﾈﾈﾈﾈﾈﾈﾈﾈﾈﾈﾈﾈﾈﾈﾈﾈﾈﾈﾈﾈﾈﾈ

The young boy walked down the brightly lit hall, body slightly bent. He slowly opened the door to his bedroom and entered.

            Sirius sat down on his bed, holding his bruised side. For the first time, and he had a feeling it would not be the last time, Sirius considered leaving. His mother, Secilia, knew what she had done, yet she told him to leave the drawing room, anyway. It was all to teach him another lesson, as, to her, the other ones did not. But Sirius felt that it pleased her to hurt him, and she never gave him a reason to think otherwise. This had been going on for years, for about as long as Sirius could remember.

            Outside, there was a rumble of thunder, then rain began to beat down against Sirius’s window. Someone knocked on his bedroom door and he said, weakly, “Come in.”

            Laye, the oldest house-elf in the house, opened the door and stuck her head in. “Young master,” she said, her voice low, “Laye has come to see . . . how young master is feeling?”

            “My whole side hurts, but I’ll be fine,” Sirius lied, knowing Laye would get in trouble if she stopped her work.

            “Would young master like Laye to get something for him?” she asked, looking back into the hall and speaking quietly.

            Sirius’s side began to throb and he made a face against the pain. “No, I don’t need anything, Laye,” he said through his teeth.

            Laye stared at him, eyes full of sympathy. Then whispered, “Young master must be careful. Listen to Mistress, or Laye fears something worse will happen.” She tucked her head back and closed the door.

            Sirius laid down on his bed, trying to fall asleep, but failing. He considered letting his mind drift off to other things, since it had worked before. He thought about what he had been doing before his and Secilia’s confrontation that day. Sirius had received a letter from his friend James.

            But instead of relaxing him, it gave him an idea. Though he was reluctant, it took him a moment to decide what to do.

            Since it was raining, Sirius got his black and blue cloak, that repelled water. He stepped outside his bedroom and closed the door as quietly as he could. Hoping that Secilia was not downstairs, he crept from the stairs to the front door. His body was still slightly bent, it hurt too much to stand up straight. Sirius hesitated, but only for a moment. He opened the door and left the house.

            Outside, it was growing dark, as it continued to rain lightly. Sirius pulled his cloak up to cover his head, then started walking. The rain ran off of his cloak, leaving everything except his shoes dry.

            It took about twenty minutes to reach his friend’s house. He climbed the steps and knocked, trying to stand straight. The door opened.

            “Can I help you?” Mrs. Potter asked. She was a short woman, with long black hair and brown eyes.

            Sirius lowered his cloak and she smiled. “Sirius, sweetheart!” She let him in. Her smile faded as she realized he was alone. “Why are you by yourself?” She closed the door.

            “Uncle Alphard’s at his house. I walked.” His uncle had been the one to bring him to the Potter’s whenever Sirius was with him. His parents hated the Potters, so Sirius never mentioned them.

            “So your parents know where you are?” she asked. Sirius nodded. “Well I don’t think you should have walked through the rain, but it’s nice to see you.” She took his cloak and put it with everyone elses’. “Come on into the livingroom, I’ll go and get James.”

            They entered the livingroom, and Mrs. Potter left to get James. There was a fire burning in the fireplace. The Potter’s home was so much more comfortable than his. He felt relived to be here, away from his own parents.

            “Sirius!”

            Sirius turned. James was coming up from the basement with his mother. Mrs. Potter went straight to the kitchen.

            “What’re you doing here?” James asked.

            “I need to ask you a favor,” Sirius replied.

            Mrs. Potter came back into the livingroom, carrying a plate with half of a cake and a knife on it.

            “Sirius, would you like a slice?” she asked. James reached and took some crumbs from the plate. Mrs. Potter lightly smacked his shoulder, though she was smiling.

            “No, thank you,” Sirius answered.

            “See,” Mrs. Potter looked at James. “Now he doesn’t want any because your dirty little hands been near the cake,” she joked. James smiled up at his mother like a four-year-old. Sirius could not help but give a small laugh. She turned and went back into the kitchen to put the cake back.

            “So, what do you want me to do?” James turned to his friend.

            “Let’s go to your room first.”

            James nodded and said, “Mum, we’re going to my room.”

            “Okay,” Mrs. Potter called back.

            On their way to his room, James asked, “Why are you walking like that?”

            “My side hurts.”

            James slowed to a stop. Sirius also stopped and looked back at him. “What?” he asked.

            “This has something to do with your mum.” James was being serious for the first time since Sirius had arrived.

            “Well . . .” A door opened, and Mr. Potter walked out, hands covered with some thick liquid.

            “Oh Sirius,” he exclaimed, “I didn’t hear anyone come in. How are you doing?”

            “Fine,”Sirius lied. He glanced at James, who was still staring at him, and back at Mr. Potter.

            “Well, good, it’s nice to see you here,” he smiled to Sirius. “James, where’s your mother?”

            “Downstairs in the kitchen,” James said, turning to face his father.

            “Good!” James’s father said, staring at his hands. “See you boys later.” He walked down the hall and out of sight.

ﾈﾈﾈﾈﾈﾈﾈﾈﾈﾈﾈﾈﾈﾈﾈﾈﾈﾈﾈﾈﾈﾈﾈﾈﾈﾈﾈﾈﾈﾈﾈﾈﾈﾈﾈﾈﾈﾈﾈﾈﾈﾈﾈﾈﾈﾈﾈﾈﾈﾈﾈﾈﾈﾈﾈﾈﾈﾈﾈﾈﾈﾈ

 

 

 

Harry sat through a long breakfast, where he ate little, and only because Mrs. Weasley watched him closely. Mr. Weasley left a short while after breakfast to go to the Ministry, and Harry and Ron made their way back up to their room.

            As they stepped onto the landing, they heard a trill come from the room that held Buckbeak. Harry and Ron looked at the door down the hall.

            “Think he’s just tired of being cooped up in the room?” Ron asked, as they walked down the hall.

            “Think he’s just tired of being cooped up in the room?” Ron asked, as they walked down the hall to the door. The trills continued and grew even louder. The boys picked up their pace.

            When Harry reached the door, he opened it and he and Ron rushed in. Once inside the room they were almost knocked to their feet.

            “What the—” Ron began, as they crouched to the ground avoiding getting hit by Buckbeak, who was hovering in the room. The hippogriff was staying close to the high ceiling, screeching at something in a corner.

            Before Harry could turn to see what Buckbeak was screeching at, Ron said angrily, “What in the bloody hell are you doing?”

            Harry turned to see what Ron too was screaming at, and standing in the darkest corner, holding a kitchen knife, was Kreacher. Harry became unsurprisingly angry.

            “What’s going on?” Mr. Weasley’s voice came from the hall.

            “Kreacher is—”

            “Kreacher must finally get it out of Mistress’s room,” Kreacher muttered. “Mistress will be pleased to have it out.”

            “You ugly, little—” Harry could not find words to say. No words to describe Kreacher or how much Harry hated him. He stood up, about to walk to the elf, but was pulled down by Ron. One of Buckbeak’s wings had almost hit Harry.

            With Harry and Ron in the room and Buckbeak’s wings and claws coming close to hitting anyone, Kreacher stayed in the corner, knife raised, and muttering as usual.

            “They cannot stop Kreacher. Mistress wants to get rid of them. This is not their house.”

            “Kreacher!” Lupin’s voice was heard from the door. Both Lupin (who must have just arrived, with twigs in his hair and attached to his clothes) and Mr. Weasley were standing in the doorway, avoiding Buckbeak’s deadly claws. “Kreacher, what in the name of Merlin’s Beard are you doing with that knife?”

            “Ron— Harry, come out of the room,” Mr. Weasley said. Buckbeak screeched even louder.

            Harry did not want to leave until Kreacher came within reaching distance for Harry to grab him. Ron began to walk to the door, half bent, but stopped when Harry did not follow. He grabbed him and pulled him out of the room.

            With the two boys gone, Kreacher preceded, with the knife, to Buckbeak. The hippogriff slashed at the elf, keeping him at bay.

            Mr. Weasley stepped toward Buckbeak, trying to calm him. Lupin, however, headed straight to Kreacher pulling out his wand as he went.

            “Kreacher, put down the knife and get out of this room,” Lupin said coldly. He apparently, was not in favor of Kreacher either.

            Kreacher became weary of the wand in Lupin’s hand. Kreacher looked back and forth between the wand and Buckbeak, who Mr. Weasley had gotten back to the floor, though the hippogriff was also weary, but of Kreacher. He was prancing, angry and scared.

            Kreacher put down the knife down, and said, “Kreacher was only following and order, sir.” He began to slump out of the room, but before he left, he muttered, “Kreacher will succeed in Mistress’s needs.”

            As Kreacher approached the door, Harry realized that Ron was gripping his upper arm. Harry’s hands clenched as the elf passed him and Ron outside the bedroom, but Ron was between Harry and Kreacher.

            Lupin lowered his wand only when Kreacher had gone downstairs. “We’re going to have to do something about Kreacher,” Mr. Weasley said, leaning against the wall next to Buckbeak, tired from trying to calm him. “That’s the third time he’s come to attack him.”

            “Why doesn’t someone get rid of Kreacher?”

 Harry mumbled, still furious.

            “You know why we can’t—”

            “I’m not talking about giving him clothes,” he interrupted. Lupin stared at Harry, eyes unreadable. Mr. Weasley did not seem surprised at Harry’s comment.

            “I need to clean up,” Lupin said. “Would you boys mind staying with Buckbeak until he calms down?” They nodded, but Harry’s mind was somewhere else. “We need to talk Arthur.”

            Lupin and Mr. Weasley left the room, and Harry and Ron entered once again.

 

 

 

 

 It was late in the afternoon when Blaise Zabini arrived in the park. In fact, he was late. Blaise was supposed to meet his girlfriend, Lisa Turpin, fifteen minutes ago.

            Blaise searched for Lisa near the park entrance. He found her on a bench near by and went to her. She stood to kiss him but he hurried and gave her a quick hug, then sat down as if nothing was wrong. There was no point in kissing Lisa. He was here to break up with her. Even if he did not want to, he knew he should have done this months ago.

            Tell her straight out, he told himself.

            “So,” Lisa said. “Are we spending the day here—”

            “No,” Blaise interrupted. “Um . . . Lisa, we need to talk.”

            “What’s wrong?”

            “It’s not . . . working,” he told her.

            “What’s not working?” She looked confused.

            “Us . . . . I think it’s best we go our separate ways.”

            “You’re breaking up with me?” she said, after a moment.

            Blaise sighed. “Yes. It’s just not the same as it was at the beginning.”

            Lisa turned away from him and looked straight ahead. “How long have you felt like this?”

            “For the past three months,” he told her. “I thought it’d get better.”

            “There was nothing wrong.” He heard a clipped note in her voice. But he was breaking up with her, so . . .

            “You didn’t see it, and that was another problem.”

            “Because I didn’t see this coming?” Lisa still looked straight ahead.

            “Yeah, there was nothing left but a few hugs and kisses in the corridors. And that was it.”

            She turned to him. “Ugh, we had a date three months ago.”

            “Three months ago, when I tried to salvage what was left. But the damn date didn’t even go well.”

            “So, we had a little fight . . .”

            “You call that ‘a little fight’?” Blaise was starting to get irritated, but he knew he should not.

            “Well, you started it anyway.”

            “How was it my fault?” His voice was slowly raising. “You accused me of cheating on you with Pansy. Pansy, Lisa? The least you could have done, was give me some credit and say Garyn or Hazyl or Adan,” he named a few girls in Slytherin that he might be seen with.

            “So you were cheating on me?” she hissed.

            Blaise stared at Lisa, wanting to scream at her. But he said, as calmly as he could, “No, Lisa, I wasn’t.”

            “Well then, if you weren’t, we can—”

            “No, I’m sorry, but it’s over,” Blaise cut in. “I’m tired of it. Maybe it was working at first, but not anymore.”

            Lisa stared silently at him. Blaise could tell she was about to cry. She stood and left him alone on the bench. A part of him wanted to go after her, but if kept doing so, it would never really be over.

            He should look at it this way: at least he was single.

 

 

 

****

Authors note: I like to relate songs with some of my scenes. I’ll be doing it the whole story and this is the first chapter I’m doing it in. It’s not important to know the song. (Song, Artist, Album)

            Blaise and Lisa’s breakup: Burn, Usher, Confessions