Harry Potter and the Sixth Year

Harry hastened back to Gryffindor to update the others. In a corner of the common room, he related the afternoon’s events to Ron and Hermione. Ron, needless to say, was delighted with Percy’s discomfiture.

“That’ll teach him to open his big mouth,” he said grimly.

But Hermione was more interested in Dean. “And Dumbledore found nothing?”

“Nope.”

“Then where had he been?”

“No one has a clue.”

“Except if Dementors are involved,” said Ron, “You Know Who is probably behind it.”

“Which is why Percy wanted him isolated. I can see his point,” Hermione added.

“Any idea which comes from Percy …”

“… is not necessarily a bad one.”

But they were interrupted by Edward.

“Umm, excuse me, Harry, but there’s someone outside who wants to talk to you.”

Harry was taken aback: who could be waiting for him outside? He went into the corridor to find Arbuthnot standing there, carefully examining the pictures. He turned round as Harry emerged from the portrait hole.

“Ah, Harry. Never went into Gryffindor myself. I was in Ravenclaw, you know.”

“Really?”

“But I think somewhere a little more private, perhaps?”

Harry nodded. They went down the corridors until they came to an empty classroom. Arbuthnot closed the door behind him, and looked round the room.

“Ah,” he said, “Defence Against the Dark Arts, with Professor Tibbit. I remember it well.”

“What happened to him?”

Arbuthnot smiled. “Retired after twenty five years at Hogwarts. Died a couple of years ago, as I recall. Of natural causes,” he added. His manner now became more business like. “What do you make of the attack on Neville and Dean?” Harry was taken aback at the directness of the question. Arbuthnot smiled again. “You’re being taken seriously at the Ministry now, Harry. At least, among an important section of the Ministry.”

“Not Fudge?”

Arbuthnot sighed. “You can be a little too direct at times, Harry.”

“Okay. I get the message.”

“So. Tell me.”

Harry began with the story of Grawp, with their expedition into the Forest with Hagrid, with the warning they had got, with the discovery of the mushrooms. He had the feeling that he was going to be telling this story time and again in the next few weeks.

Arbuthnot listened carefully as the story unfolded, then remarked: “So you’ve still no idea why this attack took place?”

“None,” confessed Harry.

“Pity. You see, a lot of us have come to realise the importance of what’s being happening to you. You’re our best link to Voldemort.”

Harry was intrigued by the use of the name. “Were you at school with Tom Riddle?”

“Fleetingly. I was a first year when he was in his last. As Head of School.”

“What was he like?” Harry asked, curious.

Arbuthnot shrugged. “What does an eleven year old make of the Head of School? He seemed impressive enough. He could have gone on to great things – well, he did, in one way. But no one was expecting quite the path he did take. Then the killings began.” He paused and looked at Harry. “You were at Mrs Longbottom’s funeral. Well, not that long ago, such events were commonplace. That’s why everyone was so relieved when finally his power seemed to have been broken. By you. And no one, but no one, wanted those times back again, apart from a few hard core Death Eaters. That’s one of the reasons why no one was prepared to believe you. And then your stories. They just seemed too fanciful. From a teenage boy, too. You have to understand all this, Harry, if you’re to understand the past couple of years.”

Harry nodded. “Ok.”

“You’re going to see an announcement in a week or two. A full pardon for Sirius Black. A posthumous Order of Merlin.” He held up a hand. “I know what you’re going to say. What’s a pardon worth now, when he’s dead? Why bother?”

Harry was beginning to realise how Arbuthnot had reached his present position of influence. His ability to read people was uncanny.

“You can look at this several ways. An empty gesture? Perhaps. A guilty conscience? Perhaps. But remember this, Harry: no one knew Pettigrew was an Animagus. Your friend Ron looked after him for all those years. If Pettigrew had not been there in the Shrieking Shack, would you have believed Sirius?”

How did Arbuthnot know about the Shrieking Shack? And he remembered with a flash of guilt of his own how he’d nearly killed Sirius there and then, until Remus had intervened.

“But you can look at it another way. Being pragmatic, which is the way many of us operate. You won’t like me saying this, Harry, but teenagers see things very much in black and white. I see things in shades of almost indistinguishable grey.”

It was an image which brought a slight smile to Harry’s face. And yet, inside, he was marvelling at the man’s skill at manipulating people. How sincere was he? Was a man like Arbuthnot ever sincere?

“Something else too, Harry. It’s also a signal that the Ministry is sending out. Black was not guilty. That means your story is now the accepted version. And we don’t say it by headlines in the Daily Prophet.” Harry again had to give a rueful grin. “People like me, Harry, operate by piling up pebbles, piling them up in a great heap until they roll down and bury someone.”

“I take your point.”

“You don’t really, Harry. You’re not that sort of person. But that doesn’t matter. What does matter is the link between you and Voldemort. And I know it’s something you feel resentful about. Teenagers have enough trouble working out their own identity without being known as the Boy Who Lived, or the Boy Who Tells Outrageous Fibs To Get Attention.”

“Or the boy with the portable inbuilt Voldemort detector,” said Harry quietly.

“Exactly. Which is why we’ve been keeping a discreet eye on you since the summer.” He held up a hand. “Wait. Don’t start going paranoid on me. But after that attack on the Ministry in the summer, we knew we had to do something. And we decided to keep an eye on you for two reasons: for protection, and for leads. You’ve just given us another lead – but what it means, we don’t know yet.”

Harry felt dizzy. There was Dumbledore protecting him, and acting as confidant. There was Kingsley, with his network in the Ministry. There was the Order. There were his friends at school: Ron, Hermione, Neville, Dean, and the others. Now there were some shadowy figures in the Ministry who expected feedback. To gain time, he walked over to the window, watching the last glimmers of light over the distant mountains.

After a minute or two, he turned round. “What do you want of me?” he asked quietly.

“All we want is the defeat of Voldemort. If you can help us there, we would like your help.”

Harry nodded. “That’s something we do have in common.”

“Good.” He hesitated. “We know that whatever Voldemort’s planning, it involves you and Hogwarts. There have been no terror attacks, which were his tactics in the past. Somehow, he regards you as an obstacle that must be overcome first.”

Harry nodded. “I know that.”

Arbuthnot tilted his head to one side. “Really?”

“I can’t say more.”

“Ah.”

“But yes, you have my help and co-operation, for what its worth.”

“Thank you.”

“How do I contact you?”

Arbuthnot hesitated. “We don’t operate in a way you might be used to – with clandestine networks.” He smiled at the expression on Harry’s face. “But we have our ways and means.”

“Fair enough.”

Arbuthnot stood up from the desk he had been perched on.

“Thank you for your offer of help and co-operation. I want no more funerals.”

“Neither do I.”

“Fair enough. Now, we’d better be getting back.”

Out in the corridor, Harry turned to Arbuthnot. He noticed they were eye to eye – almost exactly the same height.

“When this is all over,” he said quietly, “I would like to join the Ministry as an Auror. Is that a possibility?”

Arbuthnot considered this. Then: “Why do you want to become an Auror?”

“Because I know when Voldemort is gone, that there’ll be others. There always will be. And, as you’ve just said, I want no more funerals.”

“A good answer. Because it’s not all James Bond, you know.”

So the man knew something of the Muggle world. “No, I’m not after the girls or the leather.”

That did produce a laugh. “Right. Well, you undoubtedly have talents that any would be Auror would envy. And there could well be a place in the Ministry for you.”

And Harry knew that it was not Fudge he had to impress, but men like this.

When he got back to Gryffindor Tower he found the others waiting for him with a message: “Dumbledore would like to see you at your earliest convenience.”

“Oh, no.” The thought of another ‘talk’ was almost too much. “Ok, guys, I better go see him. How about you going to cheer Dean up?”

“Tried,” said Ron. “Madam Pomfrey said he was asleep and not to be disturbed.”

“Oh, well. Perhaps in the morning.”

“Yeah. By the way, we had a chat with Kingsley.”

“Useful?”

“Fairly.”

“Well, I think I’m going to have a lot to tell you too. Think it’s going to be a late night. But I’d better see Dumbledore first.”

“Sure.”

And Harry turned round to make his way back out again.

“Oh, by the way,” added Ron, “Dumbledore said to try Chocolate Frogs.”

“Really? Ok.”

Ron was looking at him suspiciously, trying to work out what that meant, but Harry just waved and carried on.

Feeling rather foolish, he stood in front of the entrance to Dumbledore’s study and cried: “Chocolate Frogs.” The doors opened and Harry stepped onto the staircase, to be carried up to Dumbledore’s study.

Dumbledore was tending to one of his little machines as Harry went in. The sight made him feel guilty.

“Professor …”

“Harry,” said Dumbledore, without turning round.

“Professor, I’ve an apology to make.”

Dumbledore straightened up and turned round. “Whatever for?” he asked.

Awkwardly, Harry gestured towards the machines. “For what I did to these at the end of last term.”

Dumbledore sighed. “Ah, yes, the end of last term. A stressful time for us all.”

“Even so. There was no excuse for vandalism.”

“My word, Harry, you are growing up.”

Harry flushed, and mumbled, “Yeah, well …”

“And then you become the tongue tied teenager again.”

“I seem to be becoming a lot of things recently.”

“Ah, such as? And take a seat, please.”

Harry sat down. “As well as a vandal and tongue tied teenager?” It was Harry’s turn to sigh. “A portable Voldemort detector. An object of curiosity.”

“Indeed, indeed. But those are things you will have to learn to live with, I’m afraid.”

“I know.” Harry looked at all the little machines whirring away on the tables around the room. “Did you manage to fix them?”

“Some. One or two had to be rebuilt.”

“I’m sorry.”

“The fault was not all yours,” said Dumbledore.

“Even so.”

“Apology accepted. And its grace noted.” Dumbledore paused. “Now then, tell me about your conversation with our interesting friend from the Ministry.”

Harry told him what Arbuthnot had said directly, what had been said between the lines, and the background to it all. When he had finished, Dumbledore steepled his fingers and was silent for some time.

“Hmm,” he said. “A conversation with Arthur Weasley is called for. But this is all very interesting. The man could be a useful ally. But Harry,” and Dumbledore leaned forward over his desk, “do not trust him in the slightest.”

Harry grinned. “Don’t worry. I’ve worked that one out already.”

“Good for you. Men like Arbuthnot …” Dumbledore paused “ … their problem is that they do not make decisions on the basis of good or evil, but rather what is expedient, what they feel will ‘work’. They call it pragmatism. But in pursuit of their goals, the individual is often expendable. As with Dean, this evening.” And Harry remembered how Dumbledore had rounded on Percy. “There are times when one person has to be sacrificed for others. But such choices, such decisions, are not to be taken lightly. It is rare that good can come from evil. Such men would not regard their actions as evil. Perhaps amoral. But it can often be a narrow dividing line.”

Dumbledore looked keenly at Harry. “Do you understand what I am saying?” Harry nodded. “I would take the paranoid certainties of Mad Eye Moody over the machinations of Arbuthnot any day,” Dumbledore went on. “And their other problem is that too often they will not initiate action by themselves: they look round, and look to see which horse to back.” Harry nodded again.

Dumbledore smiled again. “I am sorry to subject you to the wafflings of an old man, but I do think it important that you see how important the choices that you make are.”

“I know. You’ve said that to me before. And frankly, I would rather have your wafflings than any amount of behind the scenes manoeuvrings.”

Dumbledore inclined his head. “Thank you, Harry. That is more than kind. Now, if you will forgive me, I think it is time you went back to Gryffindor and told your friends of our conversation.” Was he that transparent? Harry wondered to himself. “I would listen carefully to anything Miss Grainger has to say, although perhaps the talents of your friend Ron lie more in the direction of action rather than philosophy. And do not underestimate the acuteness of your friend Neville.”

Harry smiled and stood up. “Of course. Thanks again, Professor. Oh – by the way, what do you think did happen to Dean?”

Dumbledore sat back in his chair. “Alas, Harry, I wish I knew. And that is what worries me the most.”

Of all the answers Harry wished to hear, that wasn’t one of them. He nodded. “OK. Thanks again.”

Harry left the room quietly, aware of Dumbledore’s eyes fixed on him as he went out.

After two solid hours of talking, Harry’s voice was hoarse and his head swimming. The four of them sat around the fire in the common room: everyone else had had the sense to go to bed. And, after all the talk, none of them were any the wiser.

“Got a letter from Bill this afternoon,” said Ron idly, as they gazed into the dying fire. “Another Weasley now working for the Ministry.”

“Bill? Surely he hasn’t given up his job at Gringotts?”

“No – well, he’s not really working for the Ministry – just subcontracted out, so to speak.”

“What for?” asked Hermione.

“Would you believe prison duty? Now the Dementors have left Azkaban, they’re handing over the prison to the goblins to run. A good contract for them. But they’re setting up a new prison for anyone convicted of dealing in the Dark Arts.”

“Oh? Where?”

“A place right in the middle of the Atlantic, apparently. An island the Muggles call Rockall.”

“Oh, yeah, I’ve heard of it,” said Harry. “Just before the Muggle news on the radio, they broadcast the weather forecast for shipping.”

“Malin, Rockall, Hebrides, Bailey. Southwest Gale Force 8 becoming Severe Gale 9,” said Hermione, reminiscently.

“What?” asked Ron, looking more baffled than usual.

“It’s the weather for shipping – tells them what winds to expect, and so on.”

“Anyway,” Ron went on, “he’s in charge of it all, together with a goblin called Ulgar. There’re a dozen or so wizards and loads of goblins for company.

“He’s says it’s no fun being stuck out there. The whole thing’s underground, so his tan’s fading fast. They can’t Apparate from the island. Instead, the Ministry have bought this old fishing boat that goes round and round the island, and they’ve got some wizards pretending to be fishermen, all getting sea sick.”

“Southwest Gale Force 8,” said Neville.

“Something like that. Anyway, they have to fly out from the island to the boat on broomsticks, and Apparate to land from there.”

“I’m not so sure it’s a good idea hiring goblins,” said Neville.

“Why not?”

Neville shrugged. “Well, the Dementors let us down, didn’t they? We’re hiring the goblins. Suppose You Know Who offers them more money?”

“And more rights,” said Hermione.

“Yeah, there is that,” said Ron slowly. They’d been doing goblins that week in Intelligent Magical Creatures. “Y’know,” he went on, “that Professor Wynne talks sense at times.”

That was rather like a mediaeval pope saying: ‘perhaps the world is round after all, not flat,’ or ‘maybe the earth does go round the sun’. Harry and Neville exchanged amused glances. Hermione, however, had the tact to keep staring into the fire and saying nothing.

Harry could see an almost full moon through the window. He thought of Remus, hoped he was well secured that night, yawned.

“Come on. We’ve got lessons again tomorrow.”

It was weird the way the next morning everything seemed just as it had before, the way things always had been. After their first lesson of the day, it seemed as though nothing out of the ordinary had happened at all. Dean joined them for lunch, Madam Pomfrey having finally released him.

“They checked me for potions,” he said in a matter of fact tone of voice. “All they found was a little bit of sleeping draught. Madam Pomfrey says she gives it’s stuff she gives to people all the time.”

“Weird,” muttered Ron.

“Professor Weasley didn’t want me let out,” he went on. “In fact, he wanted me locked away, but Dumbledore wouldn’t let him.” He stopped for a moment. “I knew he was a prefect when we were first years, and that’s he’s your brother, Ron, but I don’t like Professor Weasley.”

“Join the fan club,” muttered Ron savagely.

Dean glanced at him, curious, but didn’t say anything.

“You know what that was all about, don’t you?” said Neville, pouring himself some pumpkin juice.

“Yeah. They think I’m under the Imperius curse, or something like that.”

“It would make sense,” said Ron. “I mean, what happened to you for those twenty four hours?”

Dean shrugged and speared a potato. “And now my parents are all upset, too.”

“Well,” said Hermione, “we’ll keep an eye on you.”

“Yeah,” said Dean. “Maybe it’s my imagination, or I’m getting paranoid or something, but everywhere I go, there seems to be a teacher around.”

“Are you surprised?”

“Not really.”

“One good thing,” said Neville, “Professor Sprout managed to rescue the specimens when they were searching the woods.”

Dean brightened up. “Really?”

“Yeah. We’ve got them in Greenhouse Two. I want to make that potion I was telling you about. Two projects in one.”

“Do you remember how to make the potion?” asked Hermione.

Neville screwed his face up. “Not really.”

“That’s no problem,” she said, “we can …”

“… go to the Library after lunch and look it up.” Ron finished her sentence for her. Hermione looked furious.