The Human Condition

Chapter Five: The Dagger of Ithaca

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Present

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Harry yawned, stretching his hands toward the white ceiling. He pulled back his wrist to look at the pathetic watch he had been given in order to tell the time. The only sound in the room now was a scribbling of pen on a pad of paper and the quiet ticking of his cheap watch. Harry surveyed Marc as he etched his thoughts on the page.

"It's late," Harry spoke. "I think you should go now."

Marc wrote out a final word and hit the pad with his quill, making his period. He gazed up into Harry's eyes. "Hermione has feelings for you, other than friendship," he said, consulting his pad once again. "How do you feel about that?"

Harry sighed exasperatedly and rolled his eyes. "I wondered how long it would take you to ask that."

"About Hermione?"

"No, the question. 'How do you feel about that?' But I suppose it's an interesting one. If I were in your shoes I would be curious. In all honesty, I'm not sure how I feel about it. But she's my best friend in the world. Changing that would end our friendship. That's that."

"'That's that?'" Marc asked. "Nothing more?"

"Not now. It's late and I'm tired of talking. Let's continue this in the morning, all right?" he whined.

Then Marc checked his watch; it was past seven in the evening. "Fine. I'll be here as the sun shines. Are you hungry?"

"No," Harry said with a frown. "No. I usually go days without sustenance. My super powers are enough to keep me going." He rolled his eyes again. "Of course I'm hungry you idiot. There wouldn't be any possibility of me getting to eat out, would there?"

"None," Marc answered. He stashed his notes away and stood up. "I'll send someone in."

"I'm being treated like a criminal. Have I even been charged with anything?" Harry inquired, his hands tapping the chair's arms.

"You assaulted Hermione Granger for no apparent reason. You acted irrationally and confused. You remember what happened. That and you are very dangerous. Very dangerous." He started out.

"I am not," Harry whispered. "I am not." With a great whoosh, Marc was gone and Harry was alone again. He moved out of the chair to his bed, pulling the white sheets over his head. He wasn't tired. He lied to Marc. He actually felt more energized now than the rest of the week.

Someone came in the room. Harry saw the blurry figure through the sheet which covered his face.

"Are you hungry?" she asked, setting down a tray. Harry could smell the hospital food through the sheet. His stomach gave a loud growl. "The last time you ate was late this morning."

"I know," he replied, pulling the sheet off his head. The nurse was a young woman with a round face and figure. "If I ask you something, will you answer me truthfully?" he asked her.

Her lips quivered. "I guess that depends on what you ask."

Harry smirked and pulled himself up to look at her. "Are you frightened of me?"

"No," she answered quickly, taking a small step back. "Now you eat up and have a goodnight sleep. You need your strength."

"I would have it if the charms on this room were lifted. No, don't go," he said to her as she backed away from him. "I only talk to the shrink because I have to. Please, you look so friendly. I don't want to eat alone."

She shifted her eyes to the wall behind her, then back at Harry. "I'm not sure I'm allowed."

"But you want to," Harry said, smiling now. "You're curious about me, right? I know you have to be. I'm not as scary as they say I am, you know. Please sit down with me," he said, signaling to the chair beside him. "Only for a little while."

She looked to the wall again, hesitated for a moment, then sat down tenderly in the chair. Harry grabbed a sandwich from the tray and took a big bite. Tomato, lettuce, pasteurized cheese, and deli meat of some kind. No mustard.

Harry looked at his guest. "So what's your name?" he asked.

"My name?" she jumped.

"Yeah," he said. "You know, something you go by."

"Oh, it's Dinah," she said. Harry stopped chewing momentarily and nodded.

"That's a pretty name," he said.

"Thanks. My mother was a fan of Alice and Wonderland. Dinah was the name of the cat. She loves cats."

Harry nodded and swallowed the last of his sandwich. "Named after a cat, huh? Interesting." He reached for the bag of potato chips and pulled them open.

"Who were you named after?" she asked.

Harry paused. He could feel the nurse watching him with anticipation. "I don't know," he said thoughtfully. "I have no idea. I never thought to ask anyone if they knew."

"Oh," she replied, sounding sorry, "I didn't mean to bring up something sensitive."

"I'm almost twenty-four, Dinah. It's not sensitive. I don't ever think it was," he mumbled pensively. "How can you miss people you never knew? Anyways," he continued, dipping into his chips. "Hey, could you tell me why some people can walk in and out of here so easily and why some people can't?"

She opened her mouth to answer, but then a male nurse entered, his hand in his pocket. "What do you think you're doing?" he asked Harry, frowning at Dinah. Harry recognized his voice and the fall of his step; he had wrestled Harry to the ground the previous night. "Talking. It's a major form of communication in humanly occupied countries. Is that illegal in here?" he asked, sitting forward over his knees. "God forbid I break any of your rules."

"You're not to ask her questions about security. And she," he said, snapping his head at her, "is not to answer. Don't cause trouble, Potter, you're in enough as it is. Dinah, come out now." She did as told, gave one sorrowful look to Harry, then left. The male nurse glared at Harry, who glared right back, the hair falling into his eyes. "Behave," the nurse said, waving his finger at Harry as he departed.

"Yes, daddy," Harry replied. He lay back on his bed and grabbed a cigarette from his bedside table. He lit it and smoked in silence, making ships and rings with the smoke. He didn't know how long it had been since Marc had left.

"It's not safe to do that in bed," an accented woman's voice said. Harry jumped and sat up. A thin, short Indian woman stood at the other end of his cell. Harry hadn't heard her enter.

"Who are you?" he asked.

She smiled, though it did not reach her eyes. "Wouldn't you like to know."

Harry squinted at her. "Yes," he said, "I would."

Again she smiled. She extracted a cigarette from a gold clip and lit it with the snap of her fingers. Harry grinned at her. "You're not the only one who knows that trick," she told him, blowing smoke out her nose.

"It's handy," he said, pulling smoke into his lungs. "If you're not going to tell me who you are, would you inform me as to why you're here?" he asked.

She took her time to respond. "I wanted to see you. And I wanted to apologize for my colleague's lack of talent and knowledge. He is nervous around you."

"Your colleague? Simon's your partner, is he? What are you, his student or supervisor?"

"None of those," she said with a slight hint of laughter. "We study the same theories and thoughts. I can read better than he." She paced closer to him, the cigarette smoking from between her fingers. "It's frustrating, isn't it?" she asked. "To see you here, to be here; it must be frustrating." She sat down in the chair and drew in more smoke. Harry did the same.

"What kind of game is this?" he asked her, one eyebrow hiking up his face.

She laughed softly. "A game? You think I've come here to play a game?" She shook her head at him. "I said I came to see you. I wanted to know what you were like. I've been watching from the observation room, but it isn't the same as seeing you live and in color."

"Like I'm a freak show?" he asked aggressively.

"Did I say that?" she asked slowly, her eyes narrowing. "I don't think I did."

Harry scowled.

"But I'm impressed with you," she continued. "You're very powerful. Power impresses me. Does it impress you, Harry?"

"Who are you?" he asked again, this time with sincerity.

"Let's hope you don't find out," she remarked. Then she spoke to him carefully and clearly. "So does it? Does power turn you on? Does it arouse you? Does it make your skin tingle? Come on, Harry, you can be honest with me. It feels good to have so much of it, doesn't it? That's the only reason you're tolerating this prison, right? Your power is surging and pumping through your veins, boiling out of your skin, burning in mommy's eyes." She grinned at his quick response. His mouth fell open a little as he stared at her. "Oh," she said, "have I earned your attention now? I'll bet you're even more curious about me than before. That's excellent. I need to tell you something before I go and you need to remember it should your mission fail. The world is very small." She continued working on her cigarette.

Harry felt himself leaning forward towards her, urging her to finish her message. But when she continued to smoke and stare at him, Harry spoke.

"That's it? The world is small?" He shook his head. "Why are you telling me this?"

"I don't have time to go into every meaning. What you need to remember, though, is size of worldly things. Not very many wizards have your power. Everyone who breathes magical air knows that." She stood. "Could be dangerous for you. Have a nice sleep, Harry." She turned her back on him and walked out, leaving Harry to brood in silence.

Harry awoke the next morning feeling more exhausted than before he fell into sleep. He sat up and rubbed his itchy eyes. His lids felt strangely heavy. He pushed the sheets off of him; put his left leg over the bed, then his right, steadily easing his weight onto them as he rose. As he strolled to the bathroom, he thought he heard something that prickled his skin.

He whirled around and stared, but no one appeared to be in there with him. Still, he felt as though he was being watched; as if someone was following behind him.

Stay calm, he told himself. But how could he when he could hear someone else breathing, taunting him with silent whispers. He tried shaking it off as he entered the bathroom. As he looked into the mirror, trembling slightly, he thought he felt someone slide their hand down his back. He turned around suddenly -- he heard faint laughter.

"Harry?" Marc's voice questioned from outside. "You still here?"

He whirled around to see Marc, who he was never happy to see until now. "Yes," he said. "I'm in here. I'll be out in a second."

Marc nodded to himself and sat in the chair Harry had occupied the day before. He drew out his notepad, pen, and recorder and arranged them appropriately. Harry came out a few minutes later looking weak and shaken.

"Good morning. Are you feeling all right?" Marc asked, sitting up attentively.

Harry avoided his eyes as he slowly walked back to his bed. "Sure," he said, resting back down. But not only did he just hear whispers, he had a disturbing dream before he awoke. He imagined himself standing on a small parcel of land which was surrounded by steaming water. Hermione and Ron were both with him, but that wasn't enough-- he wanted more. He abandoned them and dove into the boiling water, burning and melting his skin. When he asked for their help to pull him out of the water, they pushed his head under. He woke up in a pool of sweat.

"You don't look so well," Marc commented.

"Well I haven't seen sunlight for a long time. When can I leave?" he asked, desperately wanting to change the topic and his environment.

Marc pinched the bridge of his nose and shook his head. "That's not up to me to decide. I need to get your story, listen to what you have to say and offer up, then report to the Ministry. A lot weighs on my evaluation of you, but a lot weighs on what the Ministry has to say. Now," he said, fiddling with the tape recorder in his left hand, "why didn't you allow Hermione to kiss you?"

Harry bit his bottom lip in thought and smoothed out a few wrinkles on his pants. "Because she doesn't know," he started, not facing the doctor.

"What doesn't she know?" Marc asked.

"She doesn't know what I am," he answered simply.

Marc scrunched his brow and shook his head. "What are you, Harry?"

"A lot of things," he whispered. "She only thinks she knows me, but there's so much she doesn't know about me."

"Like?"

"What I can do. What I have done." He bent his head lower as if concentrating on the wrinkles in his clothes, then spoke even softer than before. "What I can't do."

"What can't you do?" Marc asked, sitting on the edge of his chair now. "What kinds of things can't you do?"

"Important ones," he said numbly. He took a deep breath and seemed to shake off the thought. He looked back at Marc and smiled. "So," he said, "after I opened the knife and found myself clueless, I tried sleeping."

"Harry," Marc said, "what about Hermione?"

"No," he said. "I know what you want to ask, and the answer is no. I love Hermione in a friend kind of way, nothing more. She's been my best friend for most of my life and I don't want that to change. So no, doctor, I don't want any romantic relationship with her. She will have someone else, but not me."

"Is that what you want?"

"Yes. I want her to have someone else. She's my friend, that's all."

"She would be a good match for you," Marc insisted.

"No," Harry replied sternly. "She will have someone else. I don't want to talk about it anymore, okay? Don't you want to get to it? It's almost over. I really want out of here, Doctor. I hate this room."

"All right," he said, "please continue." He tried ignoring the probing questions in his mind. He would ask Harry about them later...

"I couldn't sleep of course. My mind was trying to solve the riddle on that dagger. I gave up in the early morning and decided I needed to go back to my apartment. I didn't want to wake up Hermione, so I left a note telling her how thankful I was. I didn't mention anything about what she had attempted to do."

"A note? You left a simple note?"

"That's what I said. Do you want to interrupt me, or should I continue with the story?"

"Sorry," Marc said with a small smile. "Please, go on."

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January 3, 2004

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Harry left the note explaining why he was leaving and the inscription on the knife on the pillow. He threw on his coat, checked to make sure he had his wand and his keys, and packed the dagger back in the box then fit it into one of his pockets. He tiptoed out of his room, through the living room, and out of the house without making a sound.

The harshness of the cold bit him as soon as he stepped into the crunching snow. He could see his breath and feel his feet freeze. Not surprisingly, his motorcycle wasn't here. With a loud pop, Harry Disapparated.

He reappeared inside his warm apartment where a fire was ablaze. He sighed, pulled off his coat, tossed it on the back of his couch, and sat down. He heard someone small sprinting toward him.

"Harry Potter is home!" Dobby squealed, leaping at Harry. He grabbed onto Harry's midriff and squeezed, burying his head in his shirt.

"It's nice to see you, too," Harry said, patting Dobby's head. "Thanks for the socks by the way. They were very nice."

"Dobby wanted them to match Harry Potter's ring!" he said excitedly, hugging Harry again.

"I know. You did a great job. I really think they're fantastic."

"Dobby was very worried about Harry Potter."

"Yeah," he said, "a lot of people were. Listen, I came by here to get a few things, but I'll be heading out when the sun comes up."

"Where is Harry Potter going?"

Harry grinned at Dobby. "I have to talk to some people, look into some things. You know how my trips are: I can't really go into too much detail. The important thing is I'll be happy once I get away for a while. I'll be researching the people who did this to me, find out why they did it, and who's behind it all."

Dobby's smile faded away. "Leaving again?"

"Yep," Harry said pushing off the couch. He walked to his private library and went inside. Dobby followed. Harry had a voluminous collection of Dark Arts books as well as books concerning defense against them. He pulled down a few, blowing the dust off the pages.

"But Harry Potter can't leave again!"

"Yes he can. He has to leave." He bent down and read. "I wish I knew what that spell was," he mumbled to himself. He shut the book, put it under his arm, and marched to his bedroom.

"No!" Dobby screeched, grasping onto Harry's moving leg. "Please stay with Dobby!"

"Can't." He pulled down a shrinkable suitcase and threw it on his bed. He put his books inside of it then walked back to the library, Dobby dragging on the floor, when someone knocked on the door. Harry paused.

Rap, rap, rap.

"Should Dobby answer the door?" Dobby asked, standing at the ready.

"Who would show up at this hour?" he asked thoughtfully.

"Dobby will find out!" and the house elf ran to the door before Harry could stop him. Harry followed, attempting and failing to prevent Dobby from opening the door.

"Hiya, Harry," Ron said with a grin. He had obviously Apparated for his hair was free of snow and his skin free of all signs of unbearably cold weather.

"Ron," he replied, "what are you doing here?"

"Hermione told my yesterday that I should get you to the hospital for your check-up. And I'm to make sure you don't hurt yourself in any way," he rehearsed. "You know how she is. So what are you up to so early?"

"Harry Potter is packing to leave," Dobby said sadly. Harry whirled around and scowled at him; Dobby cowered.

"You're leaving again? Already? Why?" he asked, looking offended.

"Because. Why do I have to give a reason all the time? I'm an unattached adult, you know. If I want to leave then that means I can leave."

"You have a job, Harry."

"Oh really!" he shouted. "Gee, thanks for telling me about it. I would've forgotten if you hadn't dropped by at," he made a big motion to examine his watch, "five in the morning! I am tired of being treated like a juvenile. I don't care what Hermione tells you to do, Ron. She's not in charge of me and neither are you. So why don't you walk through that door and let me alone!"

Ron froze but was regaining muscle control. "What happened to 'I shouldn't treat you so bad'? Remember that, Harry. Remember when you woke up from your operation and you told me you were sorry for how you treated me and Hermione? Returning to your old ways, are you? What has gotten into you?" He examined Harry closely; his eyes were firm and set.

Harry slowly dropped his temper and lowered his head. "Sorry," he grunted.

"Are you?"

"Yes. It's just that I have so much on my mind and I'm tired. I wanted to leave by sunrise and track down these wizards."

"Don't you want to know what's been going on while you were with Hermione?" Ron asked, a peculiar expression on his lips.

"What?" he asked.

"There have been a number of attacks during the past week. Hermione begged me not to tell you. She was afraid you would run out and get to work, thereby hurting yourself, or some such nonsense."

"Attacks? Against who?"

"Well," Ron said, sitting down on one of Harry's bar stools, "that's the weird thing about it. A few people went missing then they showed up later, dead. Harry," he said calmly, "they had silver daggers in their hearts."

Harry felt his jaw drop. "The Black Order?"

"We're not sure who did it, or how. The families reported them missing, then a few days later they all showed up in their offices, dead as doornails. All the knives are identical; silver grips, silver blades. I was going to compare them with... well, yours, but you have it."

Harry strode over to his coat which hung from the back of the couch. He reached in for the box, walked back to the bar counter, and set it down. He opened it much quicker than last night. He heard Ron gasp as Harry set the dagger on the counter, where it gleamed in the weak light.

"Well?" Harry asked. "Same design?"

Ron pulled photos from his robes and gave them to Harry. "Yours has a gold grip with jewels. The others are simply silver with funny designs on them."

Harry studied the photo of the knives. Each was identical to the next, but quite different from Harry's. These seemed much larger in size, the blades were straight and solid, and they were absent of any gems or raised writing. They were simply daggers.

"These were meant to kill," Harry mumbled. He looked down at his smaller dagger with the curved blade, which was translucent on the edges and tip. "Mine wasn't."

"What?" Ron asked.

"Look," he said, pointing to the clear edge of the blade. "It's almost like a reflection but distorted on the other side. The edge and tip aren't silver like the blade. And this writing is weird. Wish come haa, whatever that means, and the reverse of it on the other side."

"Wish come haa?" Ron asked, frowning. "That doesn't make sense. There isn't writing on the others at all. Do you think they're from the same people?"

Harry shrugged. "I have no idea," he mumbled. "But you said they were stabbed through the heart, like me. And they had strange disappearances, like the escape from Azkaban. I think it is connected Ron. Only half the pieces are missing. And I bet this dagger is the key. Wish come haa..."

"Should we go to the library?"

"Maybe," Harry muttered. "What does it mean? Haa isn't a word, but the other two are..."

"Wait," Ron said, picking up the dagger, "this lion."

"What about it?"

"Look at the photos again, Harry." Harry picked up the pictures once more and examined one which had a close up of the knives. They too had some sort of animals carved on them. Harry had seen these creatures before but he couldn't remember where.

"They're like half human and half bird."

"With faces like women," Harry mumbled. Then he put it together. "Sirens," he said.

"Sirens?"

"Yes. Half woman, half bird. They would sing beautifully in hopes of luring men to them, and their boats would crash on the rocks and they would drown. They're not real, as far as I know. Sirens are mythical."

"So it's just a coincidence?"

"I'm not sure," Harry said, feeling more confused by the second.

"Because lions are real and yours has a lion."

Harry sat down and scratched his head. "He wanted the heart of a lion," he mumbled.

"What?" Ron asked with a pained, confused expression.

"Malfoy. Before he stabbed me he said he came for the heart of a lion. He never said anything about killing me..."

Ron shook his head in confusion. "Malfoy? Harry what are you on about?"

"Malfoy was the one who stabbed me. For some reason only I know the identities of those men. He put you and everyone else under-- wait, that's it. The spell!" He hit his forehead but laughed. "That's why I'm the only one who can remember right. The Black Order put a spell on all the hostages. Malfoy said that, with the spell, he could change their memories. That's what they did! And because I wasn't under that spell, I remember what really happened! Why didn't I think of that before?"

"Are you sure?"

"I'm positive. Malfoy said he wanted to play a game with me. The game ended back there, but this dagger is a key of some sort. If I only knew how it fit." Harry set the knife down and strode to his library again, Ron tagged along. Harry laid a finger on each book and walked across the room, reading each title. "I probably don't have anything that will help me with that clue."

"What's in here?" Ron asked, as he began opening a black cabinet in the corner. Harry turned to see then ran to it and shut it before Ron could open it fully.

"Stuff."

"What kind of stuff?"

"Weapons. I collect them," he explained quickly. He clasped a lock on the cabinet and walked away from it.

"What kind?" Ron asked. "Wizard, Muggle, other?"

"A little of each. We're going to have to take a trip to the library to figure this out. What time does the London library open?"

"Early, I think. Maybe we should take Hermione with us. She'd be offended if we went to the library without her, not to mention that no one on this earth knows a library like Hermione. Should I owl her?"

"No," he said quickly. "It's early and cold. She doesn't need us to disturb her. We'll go to the library later."

Around twelve that day, after searching Harry's private collection of old volumes, Harry and Ron Apparated inside the Wizard Library of London. The sheer size of the library was enough to make even the most illiterate person stand in awe. The bookshelves stood at least fifty feet high and there were so many that they seemed to disappear into the horizon.

"Here's a question," Ron mumbled as he followed behind Harry. "Where exactly are we supposed to look? Is there a book for weird word clues?"

"Not sure," Harry said, walking over to the card catalog. He stood there staring at the files of book titles, not knowing which one to examine first.

"Hermione is handy in libraries, you know," Ron said again. "She could probably figure out the inscription. We should ask her."

"No," Harry said again, this time more firmly. "I don't need her help."

"Did you fight with her? Is that why you left so early this morning?"

"It's none of your business," Harry explained, opening a random drawer.

"It sure is! You're my friend, she's my friend. I'm a friend of both of you!"

"Shhhhhhh!" someone in the library said.

"Oh, you go 'shhhh' yourself, why don't you!" Ron replied. "So did you fight with her?"

"Ron, please, I'm looking for a book to help me out of this dilemma. Stay and be quiet, or go." He flipped through useless titles, feeling his head ache with each dead end. Ron roughly pulled out another drawer and began searching as well.

It wasn't until two in the afternoon that Harry came across Mythical Artifacts; a Guide to Worlds and Objects Unknown, which was located in isle forty-seven. Harry began marching down the tiled hallway toward it, Ron at his heel.

"This library gives me the heebie jeebies," Ron whispered as they passed isle thirty. "It's almost too big. You think if I yelled loud enough it would echo in here? I think it would. How much farther is it? Did you bring the dagger with you?"

"Yeah," Harry replied, slowing down as he approached isle forty-seven. "Here it is." The two stopped and looked down between the two shelves.

A long wooden study table was situated between the shelves aligned with straight backed chairs. Harry started into the isle to begin the search for the book, but Ron didn't move. Harry looked back at him; he was turning red. Harry slowly followed Ron's gaze to a young woman who sat on the far end of the table. She was wearing summer clothes; a black tank top, blue jeans, and hiking boots. From what Harry could tell, she had an olive complexion, well defined arms, a good profile, slanted eyes, and shiny black hair which was pulled into a pony tail. She looked no more than twenty years of age. Harry felt himself smirking as he looked back at Ron.

"You think she's pretty?" he asked him. Ron slowly nodded at Harry, never breaking his gaze from the woman. Harry looked back at her, grinning, to examine her further. She was reading from an old book with thick, yellowed pages, while she twirled her finger through a bit of her black hair. The other hand was doodling on a scrap of parchment, her feet were tapping on the ground, and her eyes were zooming across the page. Harry started towards her, but Ron pulled him back.

"Don't you talk to her!" he hissed.

The woman looked up at the two of them. They both appreciated her face now that they had a good frontal view of it. She had dark brown eyes, almost black, which were slanted upwards, suggesting that she was part Asian. Her face was thin but nearly perfect. She had full lips and a small nose.

"Hi," Harry said cordially.

"Hello," she replied politely, then looked back to her book. Harry felt Ron stare at him with malice, but he didn't care. He was here for a book, not flirting or fighting. He started to climb the shelf ladder in search of it.

"Shelf G, row eight, E702," Harry mumbled to himself, as he slid along. "E699, E700, E701, E703... it's not here," he said.

"What do you mean?" Ron asked in a deep voice.

Harry sighed but smiled. "I mean the book that I'm looking for isn't where it's supposed to be located." He climbed down the ladder, skipping the last step.

"Oh," Ron said, puffing up his shoulders. Harry had to look away from him to keep himself from laughing. "Do we have an alternative option?"

"Not that I know of," Harry said.

"Very well then," Ron continued, trying to stand taller. "We should probably get back to Headquarters and assess our options."

Harry was just about to laugh when the woman beat him to it. Ron's face turned cherry red faster than a traffic light as he looked at her. Harry felt embarrassed for Ron.

"Do you think something's funny, Miss?" he asked her.

She shook her head, laughing, as a response. She resumed her reading. Harry stood on his tip toes to see the title of the book, which was on the top of the left page. Mythical Artifacts it read.

"I need to borrow that book," Harry told her urgently.

"Well," she said, still smiling from Ron's words, "you'll have to wait until I'm done with it, won't you?"

"Yeah, Harry," Ron said. "Wait your turn." Harry whipped around to see Ron turn redder. The woman laughed again.

"Maybe you don't understand," Harry explained, pulling out a chair to sit across from her. "This is a serious situation I'm talking about. Let me borrow that book for a minute or two and then you can have it back. I promise I won't go anywhere with it."

She laid her arms across it and leaned forward. "Maybe you don't understand, but I need this book for my job so I can support myself. I'll let you have it when I'm through with it."

"Where do you work? Maybe they don't need your research right away. I need that book right now. It's a life and death situation." He smiled and purposely softened his eyes at her.

She cocked her head sideways. "I have a younger brother. I know that look, Mister. You can give me the googly, sweet eyes all day long, but I won't give you the book until I'm through with it. The sooner you leave me alone the sooner I hand it over to you." She nodded curtly then continued to read.

Harry passed loud air through his nose. "I'm Harry Potter," he said firmly. She looked up.

"I'm Vanessa Deverauex," she said, grabbing and shaking Harry's limp hand. "It's nice to meet you. Now please, let me read." She frowned at him then attempted her book once more.

Harry sat in stunned silence. Every person he met was impressed by his simple name. Their eyes would widen, their pulse would quicken, and some would even bow down to him. Why was she so different? "No," he said, "I really am."

She looked up, now with a face of mixed frustration and irritation. "Bummer," she said in a mockingly sorrowful tone. "I'll let you have the book when I'm done with it."

"Yes, but--"

"Am I speaking in an accent or something?" she asked. "I'm pretty sure it's clear English. Do you have a hearing condition? A superiority complex? Or are you so full of yourself that you have to thrust your... celebrity in my face so you can get what you want when you want it? Have you not heard what I said? I don't really care who you are. I need to read this book and you will have to wait. End of discussion."

Ron sat down next to Harry with a dreamy sort of expression. "That's a pretty name, Vanessa, is." She looked over to him, the corners of her mouth rising slightly.

"All right," Harry replied, closing his eyes, "here's the deal. I was stabbed through the heart with a knife, this knife," he said, removing it from his coat pocket, "the day before Christmas. It has some strange writing on it that I need to figure out to solve a string of crimes. I believe all my answers are in that book. Now could I please read it?"

Vanessa looked over at the knife on the table, but kept a firm grip on her book. An interesting expression passed over her face as she read the raised writing. "It's pretty magnificent," she said, her eyes landing on the large sapphire. "Ancient gold, classically cut gem, Grecian designs on the grip, a curved blade... It's more of an art piece than a weapon. I would say it was crafted thousands of years ago and preserved someplace where man couldn't find it."

Harry's mouth dropped for the second time that morning. Vanessa smirked at him. "That clue won't be found in this book," she said.

"But you know how to decipher it?" Harry asked.

She giggled. "Maybe I do. But the cost of living these days is so dreadfully high. I have to support a luxurious life style. I own three Arabian geldings. Horse feed and equipment doesn't come cheap, and it's winter time so they need more food." She tapped her fingers on the pages.

"What did you say you did for a living?" Harry asked.

"I didn't say. How desperately do you want to know about that dagger, Harry Potter?" she asked.

Harry exchanged a look with Ron, but he was staring at her. "Are you hustling me?" Harry asked her.

"Knowledge doesn't come cheap," she said. "I know what you want to know. You can offer me something or I can walk away and you can try to solve it on your own. The choice is entirely yours."

Harry sat back in the chair and stared at her. "You're kidding me, right?"

"Do I look like I'm joking?" she asked seriously. "I happen to be very smart and truly smart people don't give away knowledge for free. I know how to solve your little problem and I can do it as soon as you offer me something worth while. Surely you've done these kinds of trades before. You are an Auror, aren't you?"

Harry felt himself smiling at her. He was impressed. "Okay," he said, passing the knife over to her. "Name your price."

"Fifty galleons to solve it."

"Don't you think that's a little high?" Harry asked with a charming smirk.

"You want to take it some place else?" she answered back, reflecting his facial expression. "I'll take a bank note from you. I know where to find you if I can't get my money."

Harry pulled out a note from his coat pocket and wrote out a check to her. She snatched it from his hand and stuffed it in her shirt. Ron held his breath. Vanessa lifted the knife in her hands and examined the writing on both sides.

"They're reverses of each other," she said.

"I know that," Harry said sternly. "I didn't pay fifty galleons for the obvious."

"I'm not finished," she told him. "There are three words on each side, which tells me that your clue has three words. But since they're reversed on each side, they need to be moved around. It's simply a word scramble. And by my estimate, because this was made in a specific location, I'd say that's what it's trying to tell you." She set the dagger down and copied the words on a piece of parchment. She studied them for a few minutes.

Ron looked at Harry and grinned like a complete fool. Harry laughed but winked at him.

"Got it," she said.

"Well," Harry urged her, "what is it?"

"That will cost you fifty galleons," she told him, folding over her parchment so he couldn't see.

"What? You said fifty to solve it!" he cried.

"Yes I did," she told him. "And solved it I have. Do you want the answer?"

Ron started sniggering under his breath as Harry whipped out his notes again and wrote her another check. "You'd better be right about this," he muttered. She took it before the ink could dry then tore the answer from her parchment and handed it to him.

He opened it and saw the words: Show me Ithaca.

"Huh?" Ron said as he looked over Harry's shoulder. "What does that mean?"

Harry looked at Vanessa again to see her smiling. "Let me guess," he said to her, "I have to pay you?"

"You're such a smart boy, Harry. But because you have been so generous, I'll make you a deal."

"Let's hear it," Harry said.

"Twenty five and I'll tell you all that I know."

Reluctantly, Harry wrote one more check and handed it to her. "Ithaca was written about in Greek myth as one of the most beautiful places in the world. It appeared in Homer's Odyssey as the home and kingdom of Odysseus. It was believed to be located south of Greece on its own island. But as far as we know, Ithaca isn't real; it's just a myth. However, if this dagger is as fancy as it is, it's a good bet someone has named their home Ithaca and they want you to find it."

"Who?" Harry asked.

"I'm not sure. I don't even know that Ithaca is real. But you have to understand that your dagger wasn't meant to kill you, which is probably why you didn't die. Whoever stabbed you through wanted you to have that knife. This mystery has only just begun."

Harry reached over for it and stared. "Show me Ithaca," he said to himself, tracing his finger over the sapphire.

Ron took a deep breath and reached his hand over the table. "I'm Ron, by the way," he said to her, "Ron Weasley."

She took his hand and shook it vigorously, smiling brightly with a pink twinge on her cheeks.

******

Present

******

"A weird woman came in here last night," Harry told Marc abruptly, breaking from his story. "She just came in and started talking to me."

Marc nearly leapt out of the chair. "The Indian woman! She came in here?"

Harry's eyes widened. "You know who she is? You've seen her, too? Who the hell is she?"

"I was hoping you would know. She said she met you in a manner of speaking. She's been watching us since I came in here the first day. So you have no idea who she is?" he asked.

Harry grimaced and shook his head. "I have no bloody clue. I've never met her or seen her for that matter. She's a psychologist, that's obvious. She played mind games."

"Mind games?"

"Yeah," Harry told him, "like shrinks do. But she did it way better than you did, pal. You're mind playing is, well, quite terrible, but that's beside the point. She seemed professional, you know? Like she's been at it for years and years."

"And you're sure you haven't seen her before? I've been asking around about her, but no one has a clue who she is. She was telling the truth when she talked about having met you. Maybe it was a long time ago?"

Harry cast his mind back for her, but couldn't remember ever seeing her or anyone resembling her in his life. "How old is she? She looks younger than you, in her mid thirties or something..."

"She's older than that."

"She knew my mother," Harry said silently. "She had to have known her."

"How did you come to that?" Marc asked, getting his quill ready to write.

"She said I had her eyes. The only people who've told me I had my mother's eyes were people who knew her. So she is older than thirty. She has to be in her forties or fifties at least."

Marc jotted down a few notes as Harry mulled over his thoughts. Then, seeing a wide open avenue for a new branch of thought, he asked him a question. "Harry," he said tentatively, "do you miss her? Your mother, that is?"

Harry came back suddenly. "What?" he snapped.

"Do you miss your mother? Do you ever think about her or wish she were still alive?"

A very strange expression came over Harry's face, then. His mouth opened slightly and his eyes seemed to soften so that their eminent danger ebbed away. "Not really," he said.

"What does that mean, Harry, 'not really'? Did you miss her when you were a small child?"

"Why is she relevant to my incarceration?" Harry asked, returning to his normal posture and attitude. "I thought you wanted to know about Leucosia and how I ended up here. Did you think the comment about having her eyes was a good segue into analysis of my inner child?" he asked with a cruel smirk. "Because my childhood is really none of your damn business!"

"Why not?" Marc asked.

"Because I said it isn't, that's why. The only thing you need to know about it was that I didn't have one. I grew up fast, Doctor. I don't remember my childhood, okay?"

"So you do miss her, then?" Marc pressed on. "You missed not having a mother around, didn't you? It wasn't fair that all the other boys and girls had one and you didn't, was it?"

Harry's hands clenched into fists as the temperature rose in his face.

"There's no need to get angry, Harry," Marc said cautiously. "I know that has to be a tough issue for you. Everyone needs someone who loves them and you didn't have anyone when you were young, when you needed it the most. It wasn't your fault that you didn't. You did nothing to deserve the cards life dealt you. So back to my original question: Do you miss her?"

Harry closed his eyes and looked away. "How can you miss someone you never knew?" he asked in a forced calm.

"Then maybe not Lily personally, but the idea and concept. Didn't you long for someone of your very own? It seems like you would under the circumstances. Your cousin had a mother and a father who loved and adored him so much. What did it feel like to watch as he got it all and you suffered the loss of your mother and father?"

Harry whipped his head back around and glared with malevolent eyes. He held his head low; his black hair fell over his glasses again, and for the second time Marc had to stifle a yelp of fear.

"How do you think it felt?" he asked savagely, his body vibrating.

Marc took a deep breath and told himself to be brave. "I'm not sure, Harry. I've never been in that circumstance before. Why don't you tell me about it?"

Harry moved his head up and began laughing; his eyes stopped glowing. "You're too easy to frighten," he said with the shake of his head. "It's almost not worth the effort."

Marc stared at Harry as he laughed. He suddenly felt like he wanted to be somewhere else. He stood up. "I'm glad I can be a source of amusement for you." He gave Harry a condescending look then made his way for the passage out. But just before he got there, Harry jumped off his bed and blocked his way. He was still smirking.

"Where do you think you're going?" he asked spookily.

"I'm taking a break," he replied in a strangely calm way. "I'll be back shortly."

"You're not very good at lying, Doctor," he whispered to him, moving closer to Marc's face. "Actually, you're terrible. I know exactly what you plan on doing."

"Oh?" he responded.

"Yes. You're going to file a report about me and my sanity. You think I've lost my edge because I took fun in scaring poor pitiful you. Are you so thin skinned that you can't stand up to my verbal jabs? You have to run home and cry because the nasty Potter boy frightened you and hurt your feelings?" he asked, taunting him further by sticking out his bottom lip. "Oh," he whimpered mockingly, "bad me." He laughed again.

"You need serious help," Marc replied.

"I don't need anything," Harry said, standing taller so that he could see the top of Marc's head. "Look at that, I'm taller than you are. I never noticed that before. What do you think that means, Marcus? Does that mean I have a superiority complex and you have the Napoleon complex, or does that simply mean that I have a tall gene and you don't? The mysteries of science, eh?"

"You need someone more powerful than me to control you. Please step aside," he said calmly.

Harry roughly grabbed Marc's coat collar. "Be careful," he warned with a smile. "You said so yourself last night; I'm dangerous. I would hate it very much if I had to harm you in some way because you left."

Marc looked wildly around the room. Harry laughed again. "They can't come in here and stop me. I'm standing at the door. If they came in then I could go out."

"Are you threatening me?" Marc asked, his heart in his throat.

"You would know if I was making a threat," he replied, releasing his grip on him. He stood aside and meandered back to his bed. Three wardens rushed into the room with the whoosh of the passage. But Harry was reclining now, hands behind his head, gazing at the ceiling. Marc raised his hands to the men.

"I'm all right," he told them, his heart pounding in his chest. "Harry, you won't do that again."

"No?" he asked.

Marc ushered the wardens out and approached Harry. "No. You can't attack someone just because you don't like a question. You should also keep in mind that I can help you out of here, so you best behave yourself."

Harry gave him a satisfied grin and started to sway one of his legs back and forth.

"Now," he started, sitting down in the chair, "why don't you continue your story. The sooner you finish the sooner I can submit my completed report to the Minister."

"The Minister has a personal grievance against me," Harry said angrily as he sat up. "I thought you were just going to submit it to a Ministry official. If you give it to the Minister, I'll never get out of here."

"So you had just found out the truth of the Dagger of Ithaca," Marc continued, ignoring Harry's remark. "Vanessa Deverauex hustled you and got you to pay her 125 galleons for vague information. Then what?"

"You know what," Harry told him. "It's all on record somewhere. I really don't understand why you need my play by play of the action."

"I'm making sure you're consistent and I'm trying to pick up clues on your personality. You told me you would be completely honest and I trust you on that. Dagger of Ithaca in your hands and you're one small step closer to your mystery. Continue."

"This is so stupid," Harry said, folding his arms in a humph.

"You're nearly done. Just get to it. Think of it like a band-aid. Pull it off quickly and lessen the pain."

"It was a few weeks before I made progress on it, you know," Harry explained.

"Start wherever you want, then."

"Fine," Harry said grumpily.

"Fine."

***************

February 12, 2004

***************

Harry drummed his fingers on his desk, his lips bobbing a smoking cigarette, his steel-toed boots clanking against his swiveling chair. He was staring at the files of the stabbing victims. Two of them he knew; they had crossed his path on occasion but nothing more. The others seemed like random killings. And what was worse, the death toll was steadily rising.

Harry was convinced that evil doers or want-to-be evil doers can never take a break. In fact it seemed as though they just wanted to irritate him and plague him with headaches just for the hell of it. Since he had returned to work in the beginning of January, the strangest things happened. Random people were disappearing from their work places and would show up a day or two later either dead or insane, humming weird and haunting tunes with their eyes out of focus.

Harry had been called in to check out each and every case of this, but no new answers or theories emerged. Harry was convinced the Black Order was in charge of the events, but there was no point to them. The murders didn't seem to fit with anything that could prove useful to an outside group.

In the mean time, when he wasn't visiting a new crime scene or filing reports about them, Harry researched Ithaca and sirens, the two clues that seemed somehow connected. He had taken one of the murder weapons from the Evidence Department and compared it with his own dagger. As it turned out, Vanessa Deverauex, whoever she really was, had been right about the Grecian style of art. The lion's head on his dagger and the sirens on the others were the same style, suggesting that the string of murders and disappearances were related to the Dagger of Ithaca. Harry just didn't know how.

It was as if the Black Order found sport in killing wizards, which baffled him. Voldemort wanted to rid the world of those unworthy to practice magic, or those he thought were unworthy. Muggles and Muggle born wizards were his targets, but there was a purpose to it. Harry saw no purpose in killing wizards just to kill them. He spent hours, days, and weeks trying to find a connection or commonality between each victim. The only thing he came up with, though, was useless. They all worked, they all had families, they were the typical norm.

"Haven't bashed out your brain yet, I see," Ron said as he stood in the opening to Harry's cubicle. His shirt was un-tucked, his hair ruffled, and he had ink around his lips. "This is giving me a headache. When are you heading home?"

"Ha," Harry said, ashes dropping on his desk, "like I could go with all this on my head. I swear, why can't people do normal things like Quidditch or knitting? Why do some people need to go loony and go on a killing rampage? And why are they? Why do some people kill and others get married and have babies? I don't get it. Do they have an 'I'm mad at my father and I need to rip someone up to feel better' syndrome? Don't they know that I'll find them and put them away forever? 'Course they might get out like last year. I still can't figure out how they managed that."

"Malfoy won't talk, will he?" Ron asked.

"Draco? No. He didn't last time and I was throwing him around pretty good. I suppose I could give him another go."

Ron yawned then shook his head. "I think you should call it a night, Harry. It's late and you need to rest."

"I know what I need and what I don't need, thank you very much." He threw down a file and smothered his cigarette in his ashtray. He put his trembling hands through his hair and sighed. "What is it? Why are they doing this?"

"It's scary, though, isn't it?" Ron said, sitting on Harry's desk. "I mean we're fighting an enemy we can't even see. And they can take anyone and kill them, no questions asked. How can anyone fight that?"

Harry shook his head. "I have no idea," he yawned. Harry rubbed his eyes and ground his teeth together.

"Go home and sleep, Harry," Ron told him. "You're no use to anyone if you die of sleep deprivation. You can't carry the entire world by yourself, either, so let me help you."

Harry rolled his chair back, stood, and stretched. He pulled on his leather trench coat, felt the pockets to make sure he had his wand and keys to his motorcycle, and then walked with Ron out of Headquarters.

"Do you think I could handle a motorcycle?" Ron asked as they entered the gold elevator. Harry smiled tiredly and shook his head. "No?"

"Shouldn't you be learning how to ride horses?" Harry asked, yawning again.

Ron beamed. "Probably. But ever since I had to ride that thestral..." he shivered and cut himself off, glancing wearily at Harry. "She probably has a boyfriend," he said. "Yeah, I'm sure she does. How can a girl like that not have a boyfriend? I'm sure he's tall, bulky with muscle, and terribly good-looking. And rich. I'm sure he's rich."

The door clattered open and they walked toward the golden fountain. "She was eyeing you pretty good, Ron," Harry told him.

"Yeah?" he asked with a grin and reddened cheeks.

"Yeah. And I didn't see a ring on her finger, so she's open season. You should find where she lives and pay her a visit. You could try to get my money back, too."

"How can I find out where she lives?"

"Bend some rules," Harry told him. "Sneak a peek at her address and go there with some flowers or something crazy like that. She can't be hard to find; she gave us plenty of information, you know, probably on purpose." Harry winked at him. "With three Arabians she'll probably be on a ranch somewhere."

"So I should look for her? Isn't that like stalking someone?"

"If you keep doing it when she tells you not to, then yes, it is stalking. But you haven't taken the first step. Just give it some thought. Now, I'm heading for my bed. See you in the morning."

Ron waved then Disapparated with a loud pop. Harry walked to the visitor's elevator and rose to the street where his motorcycle awaited him. He mounted it, put the key in the ignition, started the engine, and brought it level. He sped off.

Dobby wasn't there when Harry arrived. He left a note and a hot meal, which Harry ate quickly. Then he marched to his large bedroom, shedding the outer layers of his clothes on the way. Dobby had turned down the bed and the covers were nice and warm. With one last yawn, Harry collapsed and pulled the heavy covers over him. He dozed off in seconds.

When he opened his eyes, however, he was no longer in his bedroom. He was lying in the middle of dark, wet grass which had a very strong scent. Harry raised his head to find that he was dressed as if it was a warm day; a white shirt and jeans. He pushed down on his hands and rose easily to his feet.

He heard a strange but familiar sound; loud and rhythmic.

Bu bump. Bu bump. Bu bump.

A heart beating. Instinctively he looked down at his chest and felt it. His heart was still there but it was off from the one beating. Harry looked around him. There, to his right, was a large silvery lion with a human heart clearly beating in the chest. It wasn't running at him, crouching low as if to pounce, or looking mildly threatening. The lion simply stared.

The beating heart stopped. Harry watched the lion as it began pacing around Harry as if surveying him.

"What are you?" Harry asked it.

No answer.

"What does this mean?" he asked again.

Still no answer.

Harry shook his head and walked toward the lion. Then Harry heard strange singing; it sounded strange, like it was a different language. Harry listened intently to it and recognized it as the tune the missing people hummed when they reappeared.

"You're the one who's killing them," Harry said to the lion, who seemed to smile and wink.

The next thing he knew sunlight was pouring into his closed eyes. He opened them to see the sun gleaming in through his balcony windows. Harry sat up and pulled his left wrist toward him so he could see the time on his watch. But when he looked down he noticed something very strange.

Harry was gripping the Dagger of Ithaca tightly in his hand. He held as if preparing to stab someone. Harry opened his hand; the raised writing had imprinted into his palm, which was red from the dagger's heat. He dropped it on the bed. The small diamond which was embedded in the loin's eye twinkled up at him then became dull.

"Harry Potter is still in bed?" Dobby said as he bounded into Harry's room. Harry broke his gaze from the dagger then looked at Dobby. "It is almost ten in the morning!"

"Ten!" Harry said, leaping out of bed and running into the bathroom. "Damn," he said as he turned on the water for his shower. By the time he finished his morning preparation and Apparated to the Ministry, it was ten thirty. He tried to sneak to his cubicle unseen, but Tonks yelled out at him as he passed.

"There you are!" she yelled, tripping over her trash bin to get to him. "The Minister was looking for you this morning and was furious that you weren't here."

"He can't fire me," Harry said indignantly.

"Who said he would? I'm just giving you ample warning for when he storms in here looking for you." She clapped his shoulder affectionately and smiled. "So, what's new with you?" she asked kindly, bobbing back and forth on her heels. "Meet anyone special lately?" she asked.

"No," Harry said with a smile. "But you apparently did, huh?"

"I have a date tonight with Remus!" she said happily.

"Oh," Harry said with a benign smile. "That's great, Tonks. I'm really happy for you."

She dropped her smile as she studied him. "Are you all right?" she asked him. "You seem gloomy all of a sudden."

"No, it's just..."

"Just what?" she asked. "Is this Black Order thing really getting at you? You'll catch them eventually, Harry, you always do. You're our resident evil fighter." She smiled at him again and swept some hair out of his eyes.

"Right," he said casually. "Well, good luck with the date. Tell him hello for me." He smiled at her then walked back to his cubicle, but someone else was already in his seat.

Janis Littlepage, the Minister's good-for-nothing secretary, was looking up at Harry with sick satisfaction. She reminded Harry of an over grown turkey, complete with a wobbling neck.

"Harry Potter," she said with an oily voice.

"Janis," he said with a nod. "You're in my seat."

"And you are very late. The Minister would like a word with you about your tardiness. He sent me down here to send you up stairs."

"Goodie," he replied flatly. Janis slid out of his chair and led the way to Minister Wilson's office. Harry didn't bother engaging Janis in conversation or asking questions. He acted tranquilly and unconcerned, which was a truthful emotion; Wilson had very little backbone. When Janis opened the door into Wilson's office, Harry gave her a fake smile and entered.

"You summoned?" Harry said to him.

"Ah, yes. Sit down, Harry," he said, pointing to a chair. Harry sat down and instantly relaxed, letting himself slide down so he was hardly sitting but reclining. "Is there a good explanation for your lateness this morning?" he asked.

"I worked late last night and over slept."

"I see," the Minister replied. "Were you forced to work late?"

"No," Harry said.

"So you chose to work late?" he asked.

Harry felt himself smirking. "Yes I did."

"So there is no good excuse for your lax entrance this morning?" he asked, now nervously twiddling his fingers.

"Doesn't sound like it," Harry said.

Wilson surveyed Harry's sitting position and frowned. "Sit up, please," he said. Harry rolled his eyes and did as told. "Harry, perhaps you're confused with the authority here. I have authority in this building and you are under it. Do you understand what that means?"

Harry was confused. This wasn't how the Minister usually acted. Wilson was always putty in Harry's hands; he did whatever Harry told him to do; he was weak and pathetic, a poor excuse for a wizard.

"Are you feeling all right?" Harry asked him.

The Minister smiled. "Why yes I am. I've learned a few things since I last spoke with you. I am in charge here and you are not. Therefore, since you knew that coming in late was unacceptable, I am putting you on suspension of pay."

Harry's jaw dropped. "What?" he asked.

Wilson smiled happily. "Isn't it wonderful? I went to this seminar a few weeks ago and it changed my life. My wife is really enjoying the new me. So that's the deal Harry. You come in late again without a good excuse or without contacting me, I dock your pay."

"But--"

"No buts, I make the rules around here. This also means that you can't leave for months at a time without any explanation other than 'I was working.' From now on you ask me what you can and cannot do with work, even vacation time. Is that clear?"

Harry was about to complain when the door opened again and Arthur Weasley entered.

"Arthur," the Minister said with a friendly smile. He stood up and shook Arthur's hand.

"Here's the report you asked for about the out of control umbrellas," Arthur said as he gave the report to him.

"Ah, yes, thank you ever so much."

Harry crossed his arms and looked at Arthur through the side of his eye.

"Oh," Arthur said in mock surprise, "I hope I didn't interrupt something important." Harry turned to look at him and smiled cheesily.

"You didn't," Harry told him.

"No," Wilson said. "Harry was just leaving. I'll only dock today's pay, but if it happens again it will be a week's worth, is that clear?" he asked Harry.

Harry made a big deal of getting out of the chair and straightening his coat. "Crystal," he said. He glared at Wilson, avoided Arthur's curious stare, and left the room, slamming the door behind him.

When Harry entered Headquarters for the second time that morning, Ron berated him.

"Where were you?" he asked, walking backwards as Harry advanced.

"Having my pay docked," he replied acidly.

"What?"

"I was late this morning. Wilson docked my pay for the day because he has suddenly grown a backbone, the wart. I'm also not allowed to leave for long spurts of time because 'he's in charge around here,'" Harry said. He sighed and rolled his eyes. "So how has your morning gone?"

"Fine," Ron answered. "Were you planning on leaving?" he said, turning back into the previous conversation.

Harry threw himself into his chair and picked up a quill. "What am I supposed to do by just sitting here at my desk? I mean really-- what am I supposed to do? I can't sit here all day long and push a quill around!"

Ron didn't respond.

"Unbelievable. What is so wrong with having a competent Minister for the Ministry, huh? Is it a requirement to be a complete bone head to be a Minister?"

"Harry it's only one day, it's not like a month."

"It's not the pay, Ron, it's the simple act."

"Well you are lax about the rules, Harry," Ron said silently.

Harry frowned at him. "Fine, Hermione," he replied sternly.

"Well, think about it. Now that he's finally showing some progress at becoming a good Minister, you're getting upset. Just don't be late again." Ron shifted uncomfortably and walked away.

Harry sighed again, still watching his empty doorway. He bent down over his parchment, and for the first time in years he felt completely useless.

Harry made himself look busy for the rest of the day, then left at exactly five o'clock. Ron tried to engage him in what was sure to be pointless gibber jabber, but Harry shook him off by mumbling about something.

He nearly jogged through the Atrium and urged the telephone booth to move up faster. He ran to his motorcycle and sped to his apartment, racing through red lights. He parked then Apparated to his apartment.

"Dobby!" he called once he entered. "Dobby, if anyone..." he stopped. Dobby came around the corner looking melancholy.

"What's the matter?" Harry asked him.

"M-Men came looking for Harry Potter, sir," he said in a trembling voice.

Harry frowned. "What kind of men?"

"Men asking questions, sir. Angry looking men."

"Dobby, you'll need to be more specific," he said. "What did they look like?"

But Dobby did not say. The door glowed blue and Dobby went to answer it. Ron and Hermione both came pealing inside looking very concerned. Hermione, whom Harry had only seen briefly and hadn't really conversed with since he left her house, was bordering on tears.

"Harry?" Ron said.

"What is it? What's wrong?" he asked, looking back and forth to each.

"Haven't you heard?" Hermione asked. "Don't you know?"

Harry started to feel frustrated. "Know what?"

"There's been an accident," Ron said.

"Care to be a little more specific?" Harry asked, dropping his shoulders. His evening was ruined he could just smell it.

"The Minister, Harry," Ron explained. "He's at home."

"But...?" Harry asked.

"Dead. Silver dagger straight through his heart," Ron said. "His wife found his body at the dinner table."

Harry's shoulders fell further, his heart hammered, his breath quickened. The Minister of Magic himself. "The Black Order?" he said to them. "They've attacked the Minister?"

Ron looked back at Hermione then to Harry. "It appears that way."

Harry didn't like the way he said that. It appears that way. Then a horrifying thought entered his mind. Well, you did fight with him, didn't you? Made a right scene in front of Weasley. He already suspects you of foul play, doesn't he? He was the one who tipped you... Harry whirled around to face Dobby.

"The men who came by earlier," he said to him, "were they from the Ministry?"

Wringing his hands around his lurid striped sweater, Dobby nodded.

As if in a play, there was an ominous knock on Harry's door; it did not glow a friendly blue. He glanced back at Ron and Hermione. "I had nothing to do with his murder," he told them.

"I know," Hermione said.

"'Course you didn't, Harry," Ron replied loyally.

Harry gave them feeble smiles, trying and failing to seem unconcerned. He made another about face to stare at Dobby. "Well," he said to him, "you heard them. Answer the door, Dobby."