The Darkness of the Soul

CHAPTER TWELVE - In Defense of Friends

Valentine's Day arrived, and Harry wasn't any closer to opening the globe, identifying the Ninth, or figuring out anything else than he had been. At least, he reflected, he looked good.

In the months since the last ball, he'd managed to get his hands on a number of mail-order catalogues, and if he had to make do with off-the-rack clothing, it was at least quality wear. Dragon-skin riding boots, just over the ankle and shining black, matched the black leather trousers that peaked out beneath his dress robes, which were a deep red with muted gold trim. The red was almost black, but there was just enough of it to pull out the green from his eyes. The gold trim was also subtle, except for the gold buttons on his wrists.

The clothing was the least of the changes. New spectacles, smaller than his old ones, finally replaced the black frames that he'd been stuck with for years. The frames were a muted steel, almost looking like pewter, and they only went around the top half of the lenses.

His hair was probably the most changed thing about him. He had ordered some of Sleekeasy's Hair Potion, which he remembered Hermione using before the ball in fourth year. He had used almost half a bottle, and hoped that it would keep his hair from being disobedient for at least part of the evening.

The changes to his hair and glasses had an unintended side effect, which Harry wasn't sure he liked. Before, they had covered up or at least drawn attention away from his scar - now, it stood in plain sight, where no one could possibly miss it.

Kirsten's eyes widened as she saw him enter the ballroom, and there were appreciative whistles from a number of students, mostly male ones who he expected were pulling his leg. He didn't see either Hermione or Viktor, however.

His gaze must have been more obvious than he'd thought. Girard approached him, and although Harry expected another lecture on the use of inadequate force, or possibly an accusation for the theft of Ivan's sphere, he was surprised to hear the Headmaster speak softly to him. "I believe that the people you are looking for are in one of the Library study rooms. You may as well go and see them."

"Thank you, Headmaster. I suppose I will." Harry tried not to run towards the Library, but he knew his hurry was evident by the way that students pressed to the wall in an exaggerated attempt to get out of his way.

Harry could feel a few strands of his hair already managing to break free of his skull, but he hoped the effect was still there. He remembered how he and Ron had felt at seeing Hermione dressed up for her first date with Viktor, and wondered if she'd feel the same way - jealous, and challenged to see what she hadn't seen before.

He heard what sounded like struggling from one of the Library study rooms, and ran for it. The rooms were small and cozy, just a few couches, some coffee tables, and a fireplace, and were often used for study group meetings, since with the door shut, the Librarian didn't pay attention to loud discussions.

Harry hadn't thought about what else they could be used for. Rounding the corner to look into the room, he saw that Viktor was leaning against Hermione, her back up against the wall. Their faces were flushed, and Viktor's hands were in entirely inappropriate places. Their lips were locked together, but they must have heard Harry, as Hermione broke free and spoke his name in surprise, with a voice gasping for breath.

Harry turned, and started to walk away. It was his fault for intruding, or Girard's fault for suggesting he join them, not Hermione's, but that didn't stop him from being angry. He'd hoped that she was at least partly here to see him, but she couldn't wait to start snogging Viktor the second they met.

Harry had been dancing around his feelings for Hermione for years. Only in the last two had he started to admit them to himself, but he hadn't realized how deep they ran until now. He'd always had an unspoken sense that she'd wait for him, that they could keep being friends until they suddenly became more. He hadn't thought about it consciously, and he'd almost driven her away a number of times, but she'd always been there anyway. Apparently, she'd stopped waiting. She'd made another choice. Harry was too late, and only now did he realize just what he had lost. He didn't just find her attractive, or want to be in her company. He didn't just think of her as a friend that could be something more. He loved her, and he'd never be able to tell her.

Harry felt the power of anger rising in him, but he didn't notice how it affected all that he passed. He walked towards the North Garden. Beside him, plants shriveled and died. Insects scurried away in fear.

Girard was standing in the Garden, waiting for Harry.

"Bad news, Professor Potter?"

Harry stared at him. He was suddenly sure, by Girard's satisfied smirk, that he had known what Harry would find in the Library. He knew that he could blast the Headmaster where he stood, that a single Killing Curse and a flash of green light could eliminate the self-satisfied expression of his face.

Harry was half-convinced that the Headmaster wanted it that way. He wasn't sure what Girard's motivation in trying to push him over the edge was. He might as well ask him, Harry thought. "Why are you so keen on having me use the Killing Curse, Girard?"

Girard looked off his game. "Whatever do you mean?"

"You've been manipulating things since I got here. I don't know why - are you hoping that you'll be the Dark Wizard everyone's waiting for? Or do you just expect him to bow to you?"

Girard shook his head. "Mister Potter, I had understood that you were usually slower on the uptake than this. Yes, I know about the Prophecy, but I'm afraid you don't truly understand the implications. I am surprised that you have figured out my poor, humble, part, however, especially without your dear Hermione. I wonder, do you think that she's quite finished yet? Perhaps she can fill in some of the details."

"Don't talk about her." Harry gritted his teeth. "She's worth a hundred of you - and at least two hundred Viktors. You shouldn't even say her name."

"Harsh, Mister Potter, very harsh." The Headmaster was grinning. "I am surprised that you feel that you can forbid me from saying the name of a famous witch in my own school, let alone the name of one that is engaged to my flying master."

"Leave her out of this, Girard. Tell me what you want of me and what you're trying to do. What have you done to make her be with Viktor? I can't believe she'd ever do it intentionally." His words were a denial of what he'd already accepted as truth in his heart - Hermione had chosen Viktor, who had been able to tell her what no one else had - how he felt about her.

"Why are you so sure, Mister Potter?"

"I've known Hermione for over eight years. She's got much better taste than that. And besides, if this wasn't just some sick show for my benefit, you wouldn't have timed it to send me downstairs just then."

Girard shook his head again, clearly amused. "Mister Potter, I had heard that you had become somewhat eccentric, but such delusions are hardly becoming of a Durmstrang Professor. I suggest you retire to your room for the evening. Or should I find you alternative living arrangements?" Girard lifted up a clear glass sphere, which Harry could see was empty, and then turned, walking away.

He didn't have to obey Girard. He could just kill him. Given how Durmstrang operated, they'd probably make him the next Headmaster. If he didn't kill him, though, he'd have to run from here, since it was clear he wasn't safe. Or he'd just have to obey, for now.

Harry walked to his room, ignoring the festive sounds coming from the ballroom. He didn't notice the eyes watching him from the far door of the garden, eyes furious with anger, eyes attached to the face of one Viktor Krum.

.~.~.

Harry's room had been ransacked. Hedwig was locked in her cage, and looked shaken. Harry unlocked her quickly, and called down the speaking tube for some treats, and waited for Hedwig to finish up before doing anything more.

When Hedwig had finished, he had her perch on his shoulder, while he walked around the room, righting everything. There didn't seem to be anything missing, although there were a few pages torn out of the mail-order catalogues. The fact that someone had taken the time to rip pages out for Muggle clothing, lawn gnome targets, and wand cleaning supplies seemed so incongruous to Harry that he laughed as he worked, upsetting his owl.

The fact that he could still laugh, after seeing Hermione with Viktor, surprised Harry. He kept laughing, forcing it, and trying to deny his pain. He didn't want to analyze how he felt - he felt anger, he felt hate, but he didn't feel the presence that had accompanied them before. He knew why that was. His target for them had changed. He hated himself.

Harry had been so sure of himself the year before, even after he awoke with Dumbledore by his side. He knew all about the faults everyone else had - they judged him without knowing him, they didn't tell him what they didn't want him to hear, they did what they wanted to without thinking about what it would do to him, they read too much into the words of others. In the time since then, he'd seen every one of these aspects in himself.

He wasn't sure when he'd stopped laughing. He just knew that he was sitting on the couch, sobbing in a way that he hadn't since he was a child. After Voldemort's death, he had been adrift. Dumbledore had thrown him an anchor in the Dark Arts job, but that had failed. He hadn't realized that there was another anchor holding him from being lost. That anchor was his bond with Hermione, and what had kept it's hold despite the fact that they'd gone months without talking was his hope that something more would come.

That anchor was gone, now. The one letter that he'd gotten from her obviously hadn't meant what he had thought it had. In his mind, Harry had accused Viktor of reading too much into the letters he had gotten from Hermione. He'd been guilty of the same, obviously.

Why the rose, though? A red rose wasn't just a flower; it was a message. Hermione had nearly scratched Ron's eyes out when he had gotten her carnations back in their sixth year, because she said that they stood for something like disdain. Ron just liked them because they lived more than a few days. Harry didn't remember what anything else meant, but he knew a red rose wasn't a disdainful present to give, especially to Hermione.

There was a knock at the door. Harry stood up, and walked towards the door, shaking in his steps. "Who is it?" he challenged, his voice shaking.

"It is I!" Viktor's voice nearly shouted, and Harry wished that someone would teach him to say something without an exclamation point. He cast a Glamour on himself, returning his appearance to his normal morning look, which he hoped wouldn't look too out of place for this point in the evening.

Harry opened the door. Viktor was standing there, smirking. There was a brush of lipstick on his cheek, and what looked like a bite mark on his neck. Harry fixed his gaze on the ceiling, hoping he looked nonchalant. "Yes, Viktor, what can I do for you?"

"My dear Hermoninny was so embarrassed when you caught us together, that she has decided not to stay for the ball. She wanted me to give you this, though. She said you would know what needed to be done."

He handed Harry a folded up piece of newsprint, and wished him a pleasant evening. Something in Viktor's mood seemed off, but Harry didn't really want to study him right now.

Harry unfolded the newsprint, and read it through quickly, glancing at the picture of Ginny in manacles at trial. Then he read it through again, looking carefully at the dates in the article.

He grabbed his wand and his broomstick, and told Hedwig to find Hermione.

Harry Potter was going back to England.

~.~.~

"I hope that you are satisfied," Viktor said through gritted teeth. He was standing in his room, facing away from the door. He hadn't heard it open, or heard anyone enter, but he had sensed that he was no longer alone. There was a pint-glass in his left hand filled with excellent quality vodka. His wand was clenched tightly in his right hand.

"Quite," came the voice behind him, no longer disguised. Viktor turned, and was not surprised to see Girard there, wearing a death eater uniform, with the hood pulled back and the mask in his hand. "I told you that you would have a price."

"You think that you have bought me," Viktor replied, "but you have not. I am not yours to command. The only reason I have cooperated with you at all is so that you will free my Hermoninny from the spell that Harry has on her."

"Ahh, my fine, loyal, slightly deluded flying master," Girard shook his head. "There was no spell. You've just assumed as much."

"You are lying," Viktor responded, his eyes widening in disbelief. "You promised me that if I gave that message to Potter, I would have Hermione."

Girard smiled, "And so you shall, Mister Krum. And so you shall. I will be done with her shortly, and then you will be free to do with her as you please. You may have to encourage her somewhat, but I'm certain that you can manage an Imperious curse, if you need to."

"Then, she never loved me?" Viktor's hand was shaking. He could feel the glass of vodka slipping from his fingers, and knew that soon it would fall to the floor, but he didn't care.

"I doubt it," Girard replied, smiling. "She has eyes only for Mister Potter, I am afraid. But I'm sure she might have been your friend, before you assaulted her in the library and sent the love of her life into a trap."

"Because you made me!" Viktor cried out.

"Viktor, my friend," Girard said, and he started to walk towards the door, leaving his final words for a parting shot. "How could I have made you do anything? After all, there is nothing that you want that I can give you."