Harry Potter and the Summer of the Dementors

Harry shivered as he stepped away from the Apparation point at Kirkmanley - a collection of dustbins behind a block of flats.

"Feel it?" said Kingsley quietly, as he too stepped away.

Harry nodded. "Yeah."

Dementors were definitely around: not close, but somewhere not too far away. It was a diffuse feeling too, as if there were many of them scattered around the town.

Harry gripped his wand. "What do we do?"

Kingsley shrugged. "Start walking. You can feel whether it's getting stronger or weaker - you head towards the source."

"Ok." Harry swallowed.

They stepped out into the street. It wasn't a very attractive town: dour grey houses, and a dour grey sky. It wasn't raining at the moment, but it felt as though it might at any moment.

Kingsley stopped and turned from side to side. Then: "This way," he said.

Harry followed him. "Why?"

Kingsley shrugged again. "Feeling. Instinct. Practice."

They began walking along the road. There were not many people out and about, and only the occasional car. They were on the outskirts of the town; behind them hills rose up to the grey sky.

"Down here," said Harry suddenly.

"You're sure?"

Harry nodded. "Yeah."

They walked a few hundred yards, and the cold, icy feeling became stronger and stronger. Then, with a sick feeling, Harry noticed something: a junior school on the left hand side. As they drew closer, they could see children in the playground, but not running around and shouting as children should, but instead moving with a curious lethargy. Harry heard Kingsley mutter something under his breath. Then he saw them: a group of half a dozen Dementors, standing fifty yards or so away from the school.

"What do we do?" Harry asked.

"We get as close as we can. Too close, and the Patronus we can produce will be too feeble. You'll hear me, on the count of three - and give it all you've got."

"Will they notice us?" murmured Harry, as they got closer.

"They can't tell wizards from Muggles. But don't look directly at them. Muggles can't see them, remember."

It was becoming more and more difficult now, with the air itself seeming almost to freeze. Harry could feel his mind damping down as he approached.

"Close enough," murmured Kingsley. "One, two ... THREE."

Harry brought back the memory of that birthday party, cutting the cake with Godric Gryffindor's sword. He pointed his wand and shouted: "EXPECTO PATRONUM!"

He heard Kingsley shouting too, and then the silver grey mist erupted from his wand, as the stag leapt forward in company with a raging bull from Kingsley. Heads down, prongs and horns forward, they galloped at the Dementors.

The creatures fell back in disarray, then swooped off with that gliding motion in all directions as fast as they could pursued as they fled. Finally Harry felt Kingsley relax as he lowered his wand.

"That's them got rid of."

Behind them, Harry suddenly became aware of a new noise - the playground was beginning to fill with sound of children enjoying themselves. He looked round: it was as if the playground had suddenly come to life once more.

"That's sick," he said quietly.

"What is? Dementors hanging round schools? That's the way it is, I'm afraid."

"This is all very well, but we can't be sending out teams of Aurors every day."

Kingsley sighed. "I know. We're working on that. But the only solution we can see at the moment is - well, to get rid of them permanently."

"Kill them, you mean?"

"That's right."

"Is that - I mean ..."

"What other choice do we have?" said Kingsley heavily. "Their food is our happiness. We either let them feed on us, or ..."

"Isn't there anything else we can do?"

"Such as?" Harry was silent. "I'm preparing a report for the Minister. But that's what I'll recommend."

Mercifully, the rest of the day passed relatively uneventfully, though several times Harry felt the cold breath of the Dementors' presence brush across his mind. By mid afternoon Kingsley had had enough too: "Come on, let's get back to the Ministry. I need to talk to the others."

Whilst Scotland may have been cloudy, grey, cold and drizzly, the southern half of England was enjoying warm, bright sunshine. White cumulus clouds were heaped up in the blue skies above the Wiltshire plains, which at other times could be bleak and windswept. Nestling in a valley was a grey stone manor house, which to muggle walkers tramping the countryside, seemed merely to be a tumbledown ruin, surrounded by thick impenetrable undergrowth. To the people who lived there, however, it was an imposing building. French windows led out onto a long, wide stone flagged terrace, beyond which lawns swept down to the stream at the between of the valley. Until recently, three people had lived there: Lucius Malfoy, his wife Narcissa, and his son Draco. Now, however, Lucius was incarcerated in the dungeons of a small windswept island many miles off shore in the Atlantic Ocean, where there was no sunshine, no breezes blowing in the scent of the flowers from the garden, no house elves to do his every bidding. Now only Narcissa and Draco were left in the big house. And much of their money, which had been secure in Gringott's bank, had been sequestered by the Ministry of Magic. Lucius had been too canny, however, to leave all his assets there: enough remained in various hidden accounts in banks all over Europe to ensure that his wife and son could still live reasonably comfortably.

But the busy social life of the manor was no more. Gone were the dinner parties, the garden parties. There were those who had been genuinely shocked by the discovery that Lucius Malfoy had still been a very active Death Eater. There were also those who had had their suspicions, but had been prepared to overlook them. And there were those who thought it wise not to show that they had known Lucius Malfoy at all.

But on that warm summer afternoon there was a small gathering in the large drawing room. Narcissa herself was not there; she had discreetly decided it would be better to establish an alibi at Madame Malkin's of Diagon Alley. There was, however, an assembled group of teenaged boys - though not all boys now: some had reached the age where they were now legally adult in the wizarding world. They were there at the behest of Draco Malfoy. And he had summoned them to meet the other member of the gathering: he who once had been Tom Riddle, he who had become Lord Voldemort, he who had resurrected himself in the graveyard of Little Hangleton two years before.

Voldemort reminded himself again that these youngsters were not ready yet to become Death Eaters, but he knew that there were ways of persuading them to become at the very least his assistants in the tasks ahead. For they all had one thing in common: their parents were incarcerated in the same dungeons as Lucius Malfoy, and for the same reasons. And he was bargaining on their thirst for revenge, on their desire to see their families reunited once again. And he was bargaining on other things too: their hatred for a certain fellow pupil, their hatred for the new regime in the Ministry of Magic, which threatened all they and their families had stood for over the centuries.

And now they sat in armchairs, as Voldemort himself stood at the windows, silhouetted against the bright sunshine without. They listened as he spoke to them.

"I regret as much as you do," he said quietly, his voice a soft hiss, "that you are here today, and not your fathers. I regret that you will have to go home which is without the head of the family. And I know that, like me, you would like to see your fathers free again."

The red eyes surveyed the boys in front of him. He knew that they were there for a variety of reasons, and he knew would have to play them carefully. They were not - yet - in bondage to him. Some, he knew, were nervous enough about being here in the first place. Yet none, given their family history, was likely to betray him. And foremost of the eyes fixed on him were a pair which were icy blue, and filled with hate. Hate for the things which he too hated. Draco Malfoy might well be the first of these that he would initiate into his new band of followers.

"Like me," he went on, "you too would like to see the magical world restored to its former glory, purged of those who are unworthy to be wizards. Those muggle born mudbloods, those blood traitors now in power in the Ministry.

"And I know that there is one certain way to achieve this. There is one obstacle in my path and in yours. The boy Harry Potter, the boy whose evidence put your fathers in prison."

He knew he had hit home with that. All of them knew of Potter's testimony, and what it had meant for their families. His eyes swept over the group.

"Together we can defeat the Potter boy. With him gone, the Ministry falls. The Ministry is ours. Your fathers will be released, free to return to their homes. And together, we can rule the wizarding world."

He concentrated on the pale blue eyes. "Draco Malfoy - are you with me?"

"I am." There was not a flicker of doubt there.

He moved to the next. "Gregory Goyle, are you with me?"

"I am." No doubt there; not that there was much room in a mind like that for doubt.

"Vincent Crabbe - are you with me?"

"I am." He is mine, Voldemort thought.

"Robert Avery - are you with me?"

"I am." Certainty in his voice and in his mind.

Finally: "Theodore Nott - are you with me?"

A moment's hesitation. Then: "I am." But Voldemort could feel the doubts and hesitations in his mind. Here was one to watch. Here was one who would have to be given a task that would bind him to him.

"We are agreed then," hissed Voldemort softly. "And now an oath of silence."

Again the reservations from Nott. Voldemort smiled coldly. "You have not yet been selected as part of my circle. All I require from you for the moment is the promise of silence; that what have agreed here today shall stay between ourselves, not to be divulged to outsiders."

They all nodded their agreement.

"Adligo," murmured Voldemort. It was done. They were his. For the moment.

"Now," he went on, "you are to return home. When the time comes, you will be summoned. You will help deliver the Potter boy to me. And there he will be destroyed. And the world will be ours."

He watched as one by one the boys rose to their feet and made their way to the empty fireplace, to make their way back. Finally there was just him and Draco Malfoy.

"I thank you for your help," he said formally to the tall blond boy. It hurt him to say those words. To acknowledge thanks to anyone, least of all to this arrogant youth. He knew Draco thought that he could somehow use him; use Lord Voldemort, to free his father. No one used Lord Voldemort, least of all a youngster like this. And when the time came, Draco Malfoy would discover his mistake. But for now; for now, he would lead the boy on, let the boy bring him Potter. And with Potter removed, the world would be his. And Draco Malfoy would discover what happened to those who tried to put themselves above Lord Voldemort. The Malfoys were arrogant to a man, but at least his father had the sense to acknowledge who was the more powerful. His fingers twined around the stem of his new wand; the wand he had procured with such trouble from a wandmaker deep in the heart of Europe, where the rule of Ministries ran feeble. It was not the wand that he had used for so many years, the wand he had grown up with and grown into; but nevertheless it was a wand enough to rule the world if it had the power of the Dark Lord behind it.

"What do we do next?" asked the boy.

There was arrogance there, but also fear and uncertainty, Voldemort was pleased to notice.

"Nothing," hissed Voldemort softly.

"Nothing?"

"Nothing until I tell you. Until I summon you."

"How will you do that?"

Faster than the striking of a snake, Voldemort's arm stretched out, and the tip of his wand touched the back of the boy's hand. Draco recoiled with a yelp, as Voldemort watched him, amused.

"Do not worry. You have not been Marked yet," as the boy rubbed at the back of his hand. "But you will know when you have been Summoned."

The boy stared at him sullenly. Voldemort would enjoy breaking this boy. But not yet. Not just yet. Potter was the target. This boy was an irrelevance. And Voldemort knew that Draco Malfoy would never make a suitable servant for him - but he might well have another purpose. The breaking of this boy would suit as an example to others. An example that you did not argue with or try to make use of the Dark Lord. But that was a pleasure to be stored up for the future.

"Farewell, Draco," he whispered, as he took his leave of the manor house.

Kingsley and Harry left the Ministry Apparation point at Kirkmanley to head back to the Aurors' Department. Kingsley summoned those who had been in the town that day, and asked for a quick report from each of them. The news was not good: between them, they had seen off more than a score of Dementors, and had been aware of many others hovering around.

"No wonder the Muggles are suffering, with that lot about," commented Kingsley. "OK, team, you're going in tomorrow as well. Be here for nine in the morning."

Back in his office, a dozen or more memos were circling his desk, but Kingsley plucked only one out of the air. It was coloured an ostentatious shade of green. He scanned it quickly, then groaned.

"What is it?" asked Harry.

"A summons to the Minister."

"When?"

"Now."

"Oh. Um, well, can ..."

"Can you come too? Well, you're supposed to be shadowing me, aren't you?" And Kingsley gave him a quick grin.

They set off at a brisk pace down the Ministry corridors. When they reached the Minister's offices, they were waved through by his secretary.

"There's no one with him at the moment."

Arbuthnot was sitting behind his desk signing letters as Harry and Kingsley came through. He saw them and rose to his feet, his eyes flickering momentarily to Harry.

"Ah, good, you got my note. Please, sit down."

He moved away from his desk to some chairs by the fireplace. With a feeling of slight trepidation, Harry took one, resisting the urge to shuffle inconspicuously backwards.

"So, what have you to tell me?"

Kingsley described their day in the town, and the reports from the other Aurors.

"After a few more days of being warned off, we think they might give up," he finished.

Arbuthnot frowned. "Yes, but what then?"

"Sorry?"

"You drive them away from Kirkmanley. But what after that? They'll just choose another town. We can't afford to be sending Aurors to town after town. We need a long term solution."

"The problem is that we know too little about Dementors for that."

"Yes - odd, isn't it? They guard Azkaban for years and yet we don't really know the first thing about them." He suddenly looked at Harry. "I hope your friend Hermione is going to dig something out of the archives."

Harry felt himself going a little red, but recovered. "If it's there, she'll find it."

"I'm sure," said Arbuthnot automatically. "But really, there's only one long term solution."

"Which is?" asked Kingsley.

Harry felt he knew the answer that was coming, and he was right.

"Getting rid of them for good."

"Killing them," said Kingsley flatly.

"Yes. Nasty, isn't it, putting it like that. But can you think of another solution?" Kingsley was silent. Arbuthnot sighed. "I'll call a meeting of the Wizengamot. I think it's an issue that needs airing."

"And in the meantime?" asked Kingsley.

"In the meantime, we keep on shooing them away from Kirkmanley. That's not a job for you personally, Kingsley - there are plenty of well trained Aurors and assistants that can do that job. And it would be useful experience for the trainees." Kingsley nodded at that. "But I'll call a Wizengamot meeting for three days hence - it's the minimum notice I need to give. Then we can come to some sort of a decision."

Kingsley nodded again. "I'll arrange for the patrols."

"Good." Arbuthnot's gaze switched to Harry. "Interesting day?"

"Yes, thank you, Minister. And it was a worthwhile day too."

"Excellent." Arbuthnot stood up, "Well, in that case ..."

Kingsley's face was grim as they walked back down the corridors. "I know he's probably right, but I still don't like it."

"About killing them?"

"Yes."

"But, as he said, what other choice do we have?"

"I know, I know," said Kingsley heavily. "Still doesn't mean to say I have to like it."

Harry left for Grimmauld Place at six o'clock. The kitchen was empty when he arrived, and he helped himself to a Butterbeer to shake off some of the emptiness that he felt after his encounters with the Dementors. But it wasn't long before Ron appeared. He had seen Ron at the debriefing, but hadn't had time to talk to him.

"Phew," said Ron. "What a day!" Then he saw what Harry was clutching. Any of those going spare?" he asked hopefully.

"Sure," said Harry.

Ron get himself a Butterbeer, opened it, and slumped down in a chair at the kitchen table.

"Nasty things, aren't they?" he said.

"Dementors?"

"Yeah." He shivered. "We met four today, and we had to get up close to really scare them away. Imagine being in Azkaban with those things around you all day." He shuddered, and took another pull at his Butterbeer. "Why did we do it?" he asked rhetorically.

"Use them as guards?" Harry asked. Ron nodded. "Because it was easy."

"Yeah. I suppose." Ron took another swig of Butterbeer. "Even so. And how do we get rid of them now?"

"Good question." And he told Ron of the meeting in Arbuthnot's office.

"Wow." Ron thought about this. "Well, I think I know which way I'd vote."

"Which is?"

"To get rid of them. What about you?"

"I suppose so," said Harry slowly. "Though I don't like the idea."

"I don't like it either, but what's the alternative?"

"Dunno. Ask Hermione when she gets back."

"Her idea of fun - a day in the archives!"

And when Hermione did appear some minutes later, her face was glowing.

"It was wonderful," she cried. Ron rolled his eyes, but Hermione completely ignored him, reaching for a Butterbeer. "So much there!"

"Anything about Dementors?" asked Harry, before she could go any further.

His comment slowed her down. "Not a lot," she admitted. "In fact, not much at all." She looked from one to the other. "So it wasn't quite such a good day for you two," she said more quietly.

"Useful," said Harry. "But not a lot of fun." And he told her about his meeting with Arbuthnot.

"Hmm." She bit her lip. "I thought it might end up like that."

"How would you vote?" Ron asked.

"Oh ... I don't know ... it's so difficult."

"But if you were there - in the meeting - and being asked to raise your hand?"

"I suppose," she said in a small voice, "that I'd have to go along with it."

"There are dangers," said Harry.

"Oh?" asked Ron. "Like what?"

"Well, the Dementors aren't exactly attacking anyone at the moment. Sucking people's happiness, yes, but there's a lot more they could do. If we started upsetting them."

"Like sucking out their souls, you mean."

"Yeah."

Ron stared down at the table. "We have to deal with them sooner or later. It worked while we had them at Azkaban. They got their prisoners, and we had people safely locked up. But now ..." He took another gulp of Butterbeer.

They were all silent for a minute or two. Then Ron came in with: "If they did ... I mean, if it was decided ... how would they do it?"

"They, Ron? Don't forget we're working with the Aurors at the moment."

Ron looked horrified. "Yes, but ..."

"Going to duck out of the difficult ones, Ron?" asked Hermione sweetly.

"Of course not!"

"Anyway, I thought it would be obvious."

Ron rolled his eyes. "Go on then."

"Well, we couldn't use guns - Muggles might get a bit alarmed. But how about Hagrid's favourite - a crossbow?"

Harry thought about this. "Sounds a good idea."

"Yes," said Ron, "but can you kill Dementors?"

"Well, it won't do them much good if we shoot a bolt through their heads."

Ron looked down at his Butterbeer again. "S'pose not," he muttered.

They sat in silence for a minute or two before Ron looked up hopefully. "Any food on?"

Hermione looked exasperated and made a 'pshaw' noise. Ron subsided again. She looked at her watch. "Actually, I said I'd be home for supper. I'll go straight to the Ministry tomorrow. See you here afterwards?"

The other two nodded, and she disappeared silently. Ron Sighed. "I'd better be getting back to the Burrow. Aurors' department tomorrow?"

"Sure," Harry told him.

Almost silently, Ron disappeared too.

Harry stretched. He thought about something to eat, and as he did so, Dobby appeared.

"Harry Potter is hungry?" the elf asked hopefully.

Harry smiled at him. "A bit," he admitted.

"We have some stew left from Remus Lupin's supper. Will that do for Harry Potter?"

"Excellent."

Harry leaned back in his chair, and in a matter of minutes a bowl was placed in front of him. He attacked it greedily whilst the elf watched him.

"Harry Potter would like some more?" as he pushed the plate away.

"No, thanks, Dobbie - that was just what I needed."

He stood up and yawned. "I'm off to bed. Away early again in the morning."

"What time would Harry Potter like his breakfast?"

"Don't worry about it, Dobby. I'll get something."

The elf's ears drooped. "I would like to get breakfast for Harry Potter," he said in a small voice.

"Okay, then - say ... quarter past seven then?"

The elf perked up. "Your breakfast will be ready and waiting."

And indeed it was. Far more than Harry could face. But Dobby stood as if there was nothing more worthwhile in the world than to watch Harry eat. He did his best, but eventually pushed his plate away, saying: "Got to be off, I'm afraid, Dobby."

He went quickly upstairs to get his things, then, standing in the middle of his room, thought hard about the Ministry Apparation point.