Hermione Granger and the Nundu

HERMIONE GRANGER AND THE NUNDU

By F.P.Barbieri

There was that in Dumbledore's walk and carriage that nobody had seen before. He strode through the corridors looking neither right nor left, stopping neither to notice the Hufflepuff who had just won a rare distinction in Potions nor to give a passing but penetrating glance to unsettle the Slytherin with something to hide. And in her class, Minerva McGonagall felt him coming from a distance, as a bow-wave of power driving through the ether, shaking the building in ways too subtle for any but her trained mind to feel; yet mixed with something that she had never before felt in him, and that unsettled her deeply.

But when he opened the door of her classroom, then not even the students could imagine that nothing was wrong. He addressed Professor McGonagall without even stopping to greet the class, and then he turned and said, "Class is terminated. You are all free till next period." He dismissed a class on his own authority, in the presence of the class teacher: something he would never ordinarily do. Everybody gaped at him.

Dumbledore knew that this extraordinary procedure would be rumoured throughout the school, perhaps exaggerated in the telling; and he had no taste for secrecy. He spoke again. "Professor McGonagall and I have to leave urgently. We have been summoned to the Ministry of Magic. A Nundu is on the loose in Tanzania, and the local wizards have asked urgently for help. In our absence, Professor Sprout is in charge."

The class had some trouble gathering together and leaving the classroom in order; everyone was full of questions, things to say, and general upset. As they streamed through the corridors, even the thought of some extra courtyard time could not bring about the usual cheer: everyone was chattering, arguing, trying to remember what little they knew about Nundus.

Hermione was furious at herself; for the first time in months, she did not know any more than Harry and Ron. It must be admitted that there was a little vanity in her feeling; she was so used to telling the boys everything about everything, that she was not best pleased to be only able to dig, from the capacious vaults of her memory, no more than them - a short and eminently uninformative paragraph from Fantastic beasts. She irritably headed for the Library - and made straight for the Reserved Section.

It was like no book she had ever seen. It was much longer than it was high, and the binding was made of a material she had never encountered - her closest guess was that it was the hide of some beast like a crocodile. Qabbalistic symbols were scratched on the cover in something very like dried blood, surrounding the only easily readable words: THE BOOK OF THE MAKING AND MEANING OF THE NUNDU, THE BEAST THAT WALKS LIKE A SHADOW.

Hermione shivered slightly. She was scared. She was certain that this book was up to no good. But on the other hand...

The Nundu.

She wanted to know about the Nundu.

She wanted to know!

She opened the book.

Meanwhile, Dumbledore and McGonagall had Apparated at the ministry. They were welcomed by an aging though still muscular former Auror whom they both knew vaguely, called Zeitblom Massing. His presence spoke by itself: if former Aurors were being called from retirement, the situation was dire. Prthwynn, the Ministry's international expert, was there, wringing his hands: all the Aurors, apparently, were busy, and, by the height of misfortune, practically every Hit Wizard in Europe was somewhere else doing this or that - mostly stuff that couldn't hold a candle to the Nundu, but that needed doing NOW. It was just one of those damned things, said the distracted wizard.

Indeed, as Dumbledore looked around the hall, it became clear that the bottom of the barrel was being scraped. A thin group of former Aurors and Hit Wizards, as well as a few freelance adventurers, all above fifty and most with the memories of former battle wounds. He himself, in spite of his justified confidence in his powers, was certainly not a boy any more, any more than Minerva was a girl. The only person in the room in the full blossom of his strength was the executioner, MacNair, who, though young and vigorous, was certainly no Hit Wizard or Auror. His presence there was another symptom of the Ministry's desperacy, for MacNair's help was used very sparingly - he was too well known to enjoy shedding blood. Dumbledore more than suspected him of being a Death Eater - however, he thought ruefully, Tom Riddle himself would not be unwelcome when if was a matter of coming face to face with a Nundu.

The thought of the former Head Boy and current Public Enemy no.1 roused another in Dumbledore's capacious memory: of the day in which some of the noblest and mightiest beings in the universe had visited him and volunteered their help against Riddle. And even if this was not the apocalyptic last battle in which they had proposed to take part, it was surely grim enough. He had no reason to doubt their benevolence or their hatred of evil. Dumbledore traced five magical signs in the air: and suddenly, the image of a small, blonde woman with winged headgear appeared in the air.

Explanations were quickly made - the urgency of the case properly underlined. "The monster is invisible. To the best of our knowledge, it has the shape of a leopard - as big as a hill; and it breathes some sort of poison. It has been known to devastate entire villages simply by coming near them."

The Silver Angel simply nodded, as a person who is asked to do what she understands well. It was not the first monster she had been asked to fight; not by a long chalk.

Besides, she had just now been entertaining a guest.

"I will come, my lord; and for your better help, I will bring a friend."

Thus reassured, Dumbledore turned and joined hands with the other wizards and witches, who had been observing the proceedings in silence. Most of them had understood, and been suitably impressed: even with Dumbledore, the notion of being familiar with the mighty among the Fallen Angels was sufficiently awe-inspiring. And the thought of being helped by two warrior gods raised all their spirits - except perhaps those of MacNair, who had his own reasons for disliking white and noble spirits.

All the wizards clasped hands carefully, and Dumbledore touched the Portkey. There was the familiar sense of being pulled through space by something at the level of one's belly-button; and suddenly they were on top of a kopje surrounded by a sea of grass.

Two figures were waiting for them: the tiny, wing-headed, fair-haired Silver Angel, whom they had all seen at the Ministry, and beside her - another. A tall, lean, hard-muscled, bearded man, dressed in a golden lion-skin, bearing a bow and a wooden club, with a full quiver of arrows on his back. Some of the wizards, recognizing him, were strongly tempted to kneel and worship. As the Silver Angel said, "My Lord Dumbledore and all of you, my Lords and Ladies, may I introduce to you My Lady Athena's brother, the Lord Herakles Monster-Slayer."

Only a few minutes were spent in organizing and preparing for battle. One good thing about being with old soldiers, thought McGonagall: they knew about fighting. They arranged their lookouts, their main forces, and their reserve dispositions, with the minimum of fuss; and they stood and waited.

Suddenly, the Lord Herakles called out a warning. The whole task force turned as one, looking north-west at the high grass; and, in the distance, they saw it bend and ripple as though a large object were charging though it.

"It is invisible," said one of the wizards unnecessarily. "It can bend light," answered the Angel: and suddenly the great golden lotus club was in her hand.

"Light," said the tiny cloaked figure, "is something I know. Leave its invisibility to me." And she strode out alone, her cape billowing around her, until she stood in the path of the commotion; then, looking straight ahead of her, she spoke. Brazen as the sound of fifty trumpets, terrible as cannon, her war-cry rang out, and the earth shook around her - "I AM THE SILVER ANGEL! I WILL NEVER BE DEFEATED!"

Suddenly the thing that was causing the commotion sprang into view, its covering of invisibility removed. It was - a leopard; or a thing in the shape of a leopard. A hundred feet tall at the shoulder and three hundred from neck to hind legs, taking a hundred and fifty yards at each stride, it was covered from top to toe in a horrible sort of scaly armour, each scale ending in long, ragged, bloody-edged spikes; and the head could not clearly be seen - save for the crimson fire in the hooded eyes, covered by an overhang of low but heavy forehead like a ledge of stone - for it was covered by a foulness, a mist that breathed from its mouth.

The Angel rose in flight; suddenly she was above its head, and the great golden lotus club came down on its skull. The crack of impact was overwhelmed by its furious roar; but a second later, it toppled, as the strong arms of Herakles - unnoticed on the ground as the white flying warrior had been drawing attention to herself - forced both its front legs together and held them. Large though Herakles was, the monster dwarfed him; but it was not the first or the last time that the son of Zeus would bring down monsters far larger than himself. As the terrible misshapen head turned to him and opened its jaws, he had already released the mighty paws and was jumping clear of their poisonous breath; and again the crack of the Angel's club rang like thunder.

One blow, another, another; fire from her eyes, burning and scalding where her club had wounded; and now Herakles had seized his bow and was shooting arrows forged by Hephaestos to cut their way into the Nundu's hide.

As Dumbledore and the other wizards joined the fray, the fury of the battle became indescribable: rage of spells and curses, roars from the cave of the Nundu's throat, poison of breath and flame, resounding blows from Herakles and the Silver Angel, arrows from Herakles, the gleam of Macnair's axe as he came even under its stomach to cut it, the swift and deadly lash of clawed paws and tail. Five, ten, twenty wizards were wounded; monster blood stained the earth, pouring freely from a dozen wounds; and still the Ministry forces, with the two immortals in the van, pressed their advantage, holding their titan prey in a tight circle, crossing and recrossing around it to allow it not the least chance of escape. The beast could not be allowed to live; not when it was a choice between its one life and the thousands it would take even only by the poison of its breath.

Considering the odds, Dumbledore thought, the battle was going well - and he was not the only one to think so. Many Hit Wizards were wounded, but none mortally. Macnair, taking mad chances in his frenzy of blood-lust, had inflicted telling blows (and Dumbledore filed his fighting style and character in his memory for future reference). But it was the two immortal monster-slayers who were making all the difference. Arrow and light-blast, blow of club and fist, were inflicting such damage as even Dumbledore had never seen: it was as though earthquakes had woken and walked with legs, to strike and bring low the enemies of men. In the tiny body of the Silver Angel, in the tall figure of the son of Alkmene, rested power whose very thought might make a man's blood run cold.

But still the monster did not go down. Its roars of rage were turning to softer growls, and it was striking more warily, more purposefully. It was clearly aiming to bring the battle to a stalemate. Instead of attacking with furious jumps and swipes - and exposing itself to curses and Macnair's axe in return - it crouched low, keeping its vitals covered and only using its paws and tails for sudden lunges. Instead it somehow managed to multiply the poisonous vapours from its mouth, aiming them with dreadful skill at Herakles and at the Angel; and while the Angel could use her powers to burn the blasts of poison almost immediately to harmless ashes, as long as she was busy protecting herself and Herakles from them, her club could not hammer at its skull.

Then something happened that neither the Nundu, nor the Ministry troops, could bring themselves, for a second or two, to believe - and that brought the battle to a sudden, silent halt: a civilian turned up right in the line of fire. A small female figure in Hogwarts robes, with masses of bushy brown hair.

With the exception of Macnair - who, by some mercy, was at that moment standing away from the Nundu and was not actually fighting - it was the natural reflex of every wizard to withdraw wands and cease action the moment a civilian was imperiled; and even more so of the two immortals, with their superhumanly swift reflexes and long ages of self-control. As for the Nundu, its calculation was different. A human life more or less was nothing to its ancient selfish wisdom, that had accounted for so many merely by existing; but it was not going to take one now, surrounded and at a disadvantage, and infuriate his enemies further. The mist of poison about its head abated, and its cave-like eyes narrowed as it contemplated in some wonder the half-grown female human in front of it. And for the first time, its voice was heard speaking words. "Well," it said, "who are you, bold cub? Speak up; I will not eat you... this time."

The young girl did not have the courage to answer. She just stood there, trembling, terrified; while immortals and wizards stood back in their turn, worried that to restart the fighting would put her life in danger. But the Nundu's head shook slightly, and there was an edge to its voice when it spoke again. "I am not used to repeating my questions, cub. Who are you?"

"Hermione... Hermione Granger, of Hogwarts."

"A witch. A white witch from Europe."

"Yes, sir."

"And what are you doing in my realm?"

"I... Sir, I didn't want to be here. I was reading a book... I closed it, and here I was."

"Ah, a book."

"A book ...it was in the Restricted section of our Library, sir." Dumbledore looked grave, and McGonagall made a sound that could have been a tut-tut.

"Old, was it?"

"Yes, Sir."

"Long and low, with a dragon-hide cover, and words that rearrange themselves to say THE BOOK OF THE MAKING AND MEANING OF THE NUNDU?"

"You know it, Sir?"

"Oh, Gods of the earth, I do..." and the great beast rumbled, as though it were laughing in its throat. "That was the notebook of the demi-god who made me. As he did not want others to create their own Nundus, he enchanted his book of notes so that anyone who opened it would be sent straight into my path as soon as they closed it." And for an instant, its face was distorted by a reminiscent, cruel grin. "You could consult about Nundus, you could even read it from cover to cover and learn everything my maker knew... You just would never live long enough to make use of it."

"Sir... Are you going to eat me?" asked Hermione in a tiny voice, trembling from head to foot. Then Dumbledore strode forwards. Suddenly his hand rested on Hermione's shoulder, solid and reassuring: it conveyed as clear as words the message that the Nundu could only get to her through him.

"You've had your fun, ancient lord" (for a minute, Hermione did not realize that he was addressing the Nundu) "and now we should talk. Will you consider coming to terms with us? The terms would entail your ceasing to be a scourge to Mortals; we would so work as to ensure your continued life without scathe to other Mortals and intelligent beings."

Then the Nundu really laughed: a laugh that nearly broke what was left of Hermione's courage. Like the fury of a raging fire, like the horror when the dam breaks and those below realize that they must die, like the fall of an avalanche, so was the laughing of the beast. "Will the river make a pact with that which it floods, or the earthquake with the land that it rends? Even so, Dumbledore, are you and I; enemies by nature, and one of us cannot grow without the other being destroyed."

Then Hermione really could not hold back. Her courage had almost been sapped: almost, but not quite - and she was not a Gryffindor for nothing.

"No!" she cried, "You musn't!"

"It is not wise to say must and mustn't to the Nundu, cub."

"And it is not wise to throw away your life, either!"

"And why would a daughter of Eve show any interest in my continued survival? You and I are enemies by blood."

"Because I know you from the book. You are not just an animal; your maker made you with a mind. You are ancient and wise, and I don't want that wisdom to die! For all the evil you have done, if you died it would be like the burning of a great library! But the wizards and the gods have to protect their people, and if you do not surrender, you must die at their hand!"

"It cannot be," growled the Nundu in a sort of low, rumbling whisper that shook its frame. "It cannot be."

"Oh yes it can!" cried Hermione desperately. "Think of what you are facing! Wizards who can kill with two words, and the god of strength, and the goddess of light! And more and more power where they came from! You will die, I tell you!"

"No, cub" said the great beast with a strange sort of grin on its face, "you have not caught my meaning. It cannot be, because none of them has the power to kill me. It was a god long forgotten who made me; one who died before even the oldest of those who oppose me were born; and who put a geis on me, that I could not be killed either by mortals or by gods, either by spell or by steel or by fire. THEY HAVE NOT," it concluded with a triumphant roar, "THE POWER TO SLAY ME!"

But as it spoke, swift glances were passing between wizards and immortals; and its roar had hardly ceased echoing, when two terrible words rang out from dozens of throats - AVADA KEDAVRA!! At the same time, the steel-tipped arrow from Herakles' bow, shot with speed that baffled mortal sight, entered its left eye, and fire from the stars leaped from the Silver Angel to engulf it in flame. Hermione was begging and sobbing, no, no, no, please don't - but she could not watch nor be heard, and the work of destruction went on relentlessly. The monster's enemies had not needed to consult, for they all had the same thought. All were practiced in binding and destroying monsters; all knew how to destroy geissa. The beast could not be killed by spell or by steel, by mortal or by god - but suppose all these things happened at once?

The monster fell; and yet it was not dead. The fire of spells and stars faded, and Herakles' hand fumbled into an emptied quiver. Dumbledore strode forwards to stand directly before the monster's eyes.

"This, ancient one, is your last opportunity. The child was wise and right. Your wisdom should not die from the world; we ask no more than that it should cease to kill. Your strength is gone. Your invisibility is gone. You have been brought low. It is up to you to allow yourself to live; for you will not be struck again unless you force us to."

There had been a peculiar emphasis in Dumbledore's speech when he had used the pronouns we, us. Hermione wondered; and she felt a strange feeling, a warmth on her back - as though she had the sun behind her. She turned. Huge enormous, as large as a mountain in the sky, Athena had opened the wall between the worlds; and she stood there, a silent witness and supporter to the work of her brother Herakles and her loyal supporter the Silver Angel.

Hermione understood. Of all things in the world, Athena cared for wisdom most; and her own words, that the ancient memory and wisdom of the Nundu should not be destroyed, spoke for her too. The Queen of Wisdom had come.

But the Nundu just snarled. It looked up at the great figure in the sky, around at those who had injured it, and seemed to see nothing to impress it. "YOU HAVE DONE YOUR WORST, DUMBLEDORE. YOU HAVE NOTHING TO OFFER ME AND NOTHING TO THREATEN ME WITH. YOU STRUCK AND I AM STILL ALIVE. GO, BEFORE I RECOVER MY STRENGTH."

"You deluded fool," said Dumbledore softly. He then turned to Hermione, as though it was her opinion - hers alone among all those beings of power - that was to make the difference here; as though she had the power, or else the right, to judge the Nundu. You see how it is? - His voice rang in her mind; and she looked up at the enormous ruin, still growling defiance, still vain, still implacable, and tears filled her eyes. Then she, too, turned away; and they all understood that was the last word.

(And five miles from the scene of the battle, a feral dog turned its nose to the scent...)

Athena opened her cloak before them, and they saw in its shadows the unmistakable Ministry of Magic room from where they had set out. One by one, all of them, even the bloodthirsty Macnair, turned away from the scene and walked towards the opened cloak.

(Across the river, a pack of hyenas suddenly started moving, yapping joyously. And several miles to the south-east, a solitary hillock that housed a pride of lions suddenly rang with roars, as the great carnivores rose and turned to one single direction...)

They were back in London, saying farewell to Herakles and the Silver Angel, and Macnair was preparing to write his report to Cornelius Fudge. (Dumbledore had no doubt that another, and more sincere, report, would soon reach Voldemort. Nor did the thought displease him. There was nothing about the fate of the Nundu, nor about the fact that Dumbledore was friendly with Athena and could call on her warriors, to make Voldemort happy.) Hermione was still sobbing in a corner: the necessities and dire truths of war were not the sort of world to which she could ever get used.

(And in Africa, millions of flesh-eating ants were crawling out of their hills...)

But nothing could altogether suppress or silence her curiosity for long. As soon as they, in turn, had left by Floo powder, she turned to Dumbledore and asked about the one thing she had not yet understood:

"Sir, I think... I feel... that when we left, we had condemned the Nundu to death. But how? Even the Avada Kedavra curse could not kill it..."

"That is right, Hermione. We had certainly exhausted our resources in terms of power and strength. If Avada Kedavra, a divine arrow through the brain, and the star-fire of the Silver Angel, not to mention hundreds of wounds, could not kill the creature, then it was right; no power of ours could destroy it.

"But that does not mean that it could not be destroyed; it only meant that it chose a very cruel and protracted way to be killed. As we were leaving, we peppered the area with a particularly subtle spell... one that heightens the senses of any predator, from flesh-eating insects to lions and eagles.

"You see, we had not been exactly ineffective. The Silver Angel had stripped it of its invisibility. Light is her power, and nothing can remain hidden if she does not want it, no matter how strong the spell. And then, working together, we have destroyed its strength; we could not kill it, but we could exhaust it.

"And we did not leave it alone. We left in it the company of every hungry carnivore, big and small, in ten or twenty miles. You see, Hermione, no god or wizard can create an altogether invulnerable and invincible creature; and its forgotten creator had not even thought of doing so. He had made him unkillable by what he regarded as the most dangerous enemies - wizards and fallen angels; but he had only protected him from Muggles and animals by overwhelming strength, armour, and invisibility. With its invisibility gone, they can track it; with its strength shattered, they can approach it without being destroyed on the spot; with its armour broken by wounds, they can bite it..."

Dumbledore's voice trailed off, as both he and Hermione contemplated the dreadful thought of a mountain of enchanted flesh and the small things, dwarfish to it - all of them, ants and lions, bedbugs and eagles - and what they were doing... Hermione could not think of it; yet she could not tear her mind away. Shaking with sobs, racked with horror and grief and shame, she wept uncontrollably; until Dumbledore picked her up in his arms - with a strength not to be suspected in so old a man - and took her to Madam Pomfrey's infirmary, asking for a strong sleeping potion to grant her some rest from her tormented imagination. Something ancient, corrupt, and great, had been brought low at last; and such things never fall without their tribute of grief and horror.