To Be or Not To Be

To Be or Not To Be: Chapter One

The Secretkeeper

_

Footsteps echoed down the deserted street as a cloaked figure hurried through the rain. Wind whistled around the lampposts, joining the sound of the rain in a dying symphony. Head bowed against the wind, the woman pushed the wet strands of dark hair out of her eyes. Seeing nothing but the dark, reflective puddles in front of her, she fought her way through the oncoming storm. Sensing a strange presence, the hairs on the back of her neck stood up like soldiers preparing to die in battle. With a quick glance at the shadowy alley behind her, she began to walk faster. Her walk turned into a run as her mind flew back to the dream she had had last night.

She blinked the blood out of her eyes, trying to move her head against the dead weight it suddenly seemed to possess. She couldn't see, she couldn't think, her voice seemed to have deserted her, she could only lie, spread-eagled, on this strange cold floor. At last, her vision cleared. Darkness shrouded it instantly, pressing in on her, her eyes straining against the gloom. A wisp of light fluttered by, and it took her muddled mind a few seconds to realize that it was a sheet of parchment. Suddenly, a wind picked up; her hair blew around her motionless body, and slowly her vision turned white. Parchment flew about her, coming in and out of focus as they came nearer and nearer. She felt her feet lift off the ground, and her head began to lull uncontrollably on her neck. As her vision swung, she made out a gap in the fluttering papers. Standing across the room from her was a hooded man, his black cloak flowing behind him. Sharp red eyes shone in the depths of the hood, eyes that seemed to be full of mocking amusement. A long, high-pitched scream sounded, making shivers run up and down her spine. The sound of something hitting the floor resounded around the room, making the windowpanes rattle. A strange laugh rang in her ears, and the hooded figure began to walk towards her. He stopped a few feet away, and reached out a long, cold finger to stroke her cheek. "Time to go to sleep, number thirteen, time to go to sleep."

The woman looked up, surprised to find herself at her own driveway. She walked up the path, fumbling through her purse to find her keys. At last, she found them, and stopped in front of her door, blinking through the rain, searching for the right one. A footstep crunched on her driveway. The woman spun around, her keys flying into the bushes beside the porch. She shook herself, seeing nothing but her old beat-up car. She turned, and bent down to pick up her keys, when she noticed movement out of the corner of her eye. The woman straightened quickly, facing her door. She looked past the now swinging door into the shadows of her hallway. The door creaked on its hinges as it swung, and the darkness seemed concentrated and complete inside, like a graveyard at midnight.

Ignoring her conscience, she tightened her cloak around her and stepped over the threshold. She strained her eyes against the gloom, now that the street lamp was the only source of light, attempting to pick out any sign of movement. Her hand instinctively went to her right robe pocket, where she kept her wand. It closed on empty air. Her hands frantically searched her robes, then froze. Laughter, people asking her to have more punch, her wand... putting it down on the drinks table at the dinner party to pick up her keys. Slowly, her hand groped along the wall. At last, it found the light switch. She flicked it on, then off, then on again, but nothing happened. Telling herself she was being stupid, she took another step away from the door, blinking in the half-light, trying to find the other light switch. The door slammed behind her, plunging her into total darkness.

Dismissing it as the wind, she felt her way down the hallway and into the dining room. Here, small amounts of light filtered through the blinds from the lamp outside, reflecting off the crystal chandelier and illuminating the covered table and chairs. She flicked the light switch on in here, but, as in the hallway, nothing happened. A wind rustled some of the papers on the table, lifting one off completely. She shivered, and walked over to the table to replace it. Her arm froze halfway to the table. Her eyes roved frantically around the room, searching all of the blinds and windows. Nothing was open. Another wind picked up, making her hair flutter out behind her, and causing the papers on the table to rise into the air. They began to whip around her face, and she gasped...remembering...

The woman clawed her way through the parchment sheets, only to find more. She began to run desperately forward, trying to find a gap in the papers. Surely, surely there hadn't been this many? They were surrounding her, trying to cut her off from her air supply, trying to separate her from her world. She fought against them, running as fast as she could. And then, without warning, she ran straight into a wall.

Lightning illuminated the scene inside the dining room. It lit up the woman, beginning to fall to the ground, and it outlined another figure, swathed in black, across the room from her. The figure had a hand extended, and it was pointing directly at the woman. The room went black, and thunder rolled across the mountains. In the next flash of lightning, she was dead.

The man's footfalls echoed the pounding rain, making him a giant walking on a forest. He reached the pale, drenched woman lying sprawled on the floor next to the wall, and leaned over her. Her bright blue eyes were flung wide, her dark brown hair thrown violently across her face; the arm she had thrown over her face in protection was bloody. The man knelt beside her, an action that was fluid with grace. He looked into her dull, glazed blue eyes for a long time before closing them with two fingers. When he spoke, his voice was full of mocking laughter.

"Goodnight, number thirteen."

_

The following morning dawned misty and cold with a hint of thunder in the air. Walking down Primrose Path in Little Whinging, Hermione Granger pulled her cloak closer around her with her left hand, her teeth clenched together against the biting wind. Her right arm remained outstretched in front of her, her wand held tightly in it. I probably couldn't let go of it if I tried, she thought wryly, feeling her fingers go numb. Looking at her watch on her left arm, she shivered. Three more terrifying hours to go. Three more hours of jumping at any sign of movement, of peering into darkened corners, of not knowing whether she would survive the morning. But it was her duty, as she reminded herself constantly, and she would do it. Resolve strengthened, Hermione began to walk more briskly, blue cloak fluttering out behind her.

The crest on her cloak would have been unusual had she been wearing it ten years ago. But now, it was the sign of peace in a torrential world. It was the sign of the Order of the Phoenix. A red and gold bird spread its wings on her back, the tips curling around her shoulders, its head thrown back in song. A small emerald glinted from its eye, and as she walked it seemed to pulse with a life of its own. Hermione froze, feeling the beat of the stone.

Breathing more quickly now, she began to spin, looking in all directions on the small suburban street. She took a step back and felt the throbbing lessen. It must be in front of her. Hermione took a deep breath, and began to creep forward, eyes roving the sidewalk and houses on either side. Suddenly she tripped over a loose rock in the middle of the street and automatically brought her right arm close to her chest and her left in front of her. This caused her to roll a ways down the street, until she finally came to a halt in front of someone's mailbox. Rubbing her head, eyes watering, she looked up at the mailbox, reading the name Ruth Baker.

Smiling, Hermione got to her feet, brushed herself off, and turned to the house in front of her. Ruth was one of Hermione's close friends, an energetic girl of 21. She was also, Hermione reflected, Harry's girlfriend. Ruth's house was a pale yellow with pastel colored windows and doors. Her old Chevrolet, some kind of Muggle car, sat in the driveway. Ivy was creeping up one side, roses up the other. The garden itself was prim and manicured, the hedges remaining from its days of Muggle inhabitation. Hermione's smile vanished as she noticed that the door was open.

Quickly, she checked her watch, afraid of a mistake. But it was 6:31 am, just a minute after the last time she had checked. No one was allowed to be out of their house before 9:30 am, and even then it was warned against. Leaving doors open was dangerous, as it broke the Fidelius Charm placed upon the house. The back of Hermione's neck prickled, and she turned quickly to look down the street. A black cloak whipped out of sight around the corner of Wisteria Walk.

"Oh god," whispered Hermione. Order members wore blue, civilians wore yellow, children wore green. All easily recognizable from the Death Eaters black...

Hermione reached into her pocket and found the stone hidden there. She grabbed it, felt it pulse steadily under her fingers, and whispered 'Viktor Krum'. There was a swishing noise, and a lone, golden feather dropped in front of her. Heart pounding, Hermione bent over the feather. Engraved along the side was 7, 9, 11, 76. Great, thought Hermione frantically. She needed him now, not in five minutes! Her heart turned over as she realized what she had to do. She began to climb up the carefully cut grass, towards the open door. It swung slightly on its hinges as the wind whistled through it. The emerald on Hermione's back began to beat uncomfortably.

She held out her wand in front of her, and murmured a spell she herself had created a few years before. Her wand tip glowed white, then blue. She relaxed slightly, glad that the danger had, for the moment, passed on. But that left her with a solution that was too horrible to think about...yet she must think of it. It's my duty...it's my duty...

"Lumos."

Holding her high in front of her, Hermione stepped onto the threshold. She felt the magic in the doorway immediately, the spark of a spell cast years before, obviously for the person's protection. It would not help her however, and she quickly undid the locking charm. It wouldn't do if she were stuck in this house with...other people. Hermione walked into the middle of the hallway, noticing the dust and ash scattered about on the floor. She cast her eyes around, looking for any sign of a struggle. There was none, but then she saw the depressions in the dust. Someone passed through here, hesitantly, hugging the wall. Bending over the footprints, she noticed another, harder, set. She was followed home, thought Hermione, jumping up and away from them. But how?

The footprints led to a room on the left, the dining room, if Hermione remembered correctly. She walked tentatively into the dining room, flipping on the light switch as she went. The electric light bulb above her flickered to life, and the scene that met her was more horrible than her worst nightmare.

The dark mahogany table was covered in cobwebs and dust, making Hermione stifle a sneeze as they rose slightly on her entry. Ruth had always kept her house spotless... Surrounding the table were minute slips of parchment, dotting the black tile like snow on asphalt. And in the center of the table was a body on its side, staring straight at Hermione, blue eyes unblinking. The hair was combed back in a neat bun, both hands were by the woman's sides, and her coat was hung opposite the room. She would have looked normal, if she hadn't been dead.

"Ruth," gasped Hermione. She wanted to run to her friend, wanted to check that she was dead, and not sleeping...but Hermione already knew the answer. Those eyes were filmed over, they had lost the spark of life. No light danced in them, no mischievious plans lingered behind them, no compassion rang true through them. Ruth was gone, and had been for at least five or six hours...

Hermione found that she was frozen in space and time, connected to those blue eyes that looked so coldly into her own. Fixed on her, they did not blink nor sway, and her own heart seemed to have stopped the moment the icy connection was formed. She did not notice the shadow in the doorway, nor the footsteps behind her, until a hand reached out and grabbed her shoulder. She screamed, but the hand covered her mouth.

"It is just me, Hermione!" came a soft voice behind her. She relaxed and turned her blood-shot eyes onto her Order partner, Viktor Krum. Standing illuminated in the doorway, he could have been a giant, with his broad shoulders, dark eyes, and stocky figure. At six foot five, Viktor towered almost a foot above Hermione, who always felt safer with him around. His strong accent had long gone, though people still asked him where he was originally from. His thick eyebrows were knit together, and he was looking over her head at the body on the table.

"My God!" he whispered. He did not hesitate as Hermione had done, but quickly went to the young woman's side. "Definitely a curse...yes, no marks...wait, here's one...Hermione?" He looked up at her, raising his eyebrows. She started, realizing that she had to take notes on the death.

"Sorry," she said, coming to his side. "What do you think happened?" She pulled out her quill and a piece of parchment. "Her name was Ruth Baker," she dictated to the quill. It began to write instantly.

"Well," said Viktor, now peering into the girl's eyes. "She was definitely frightened, which rules out the possibility of an attack when she was sleeping or unaware of danger. She has no visible marks on her save this." He held out Ruth's arm. It was bloody, with a rather long gash in it.

"Knife wound?" suggested Hermione.

"No," said Viktor, sounding puzzled. "It almost looks like she was trying to shield herself..."

Hermione's eyes darted around the room, then fell on one wall. "There!" she exclaimed, running over. A rusty nail was sticking out of the wallpaper, and there were a few streaks of dried blood on it. "She must have cut herself accidentally for some reason..."

"Likely," said Viktor, nodding in approval. "I have a strong feeling that this was the Avada Kedavra curse. No marks, save one that can be explained, and a look of fear. The look of fear can probably be explained by other aspects too."

"Such as these," commented Hermione, kneeling on the ground. She held up a few scraps of parchment.

"Indeed," said Viktor, raising his eyebrows and quickly kneeling as well. "Interesting," he commented, feeling the pieces with his fingers. "Some of these are partly turned to ash!"

"Could it be," said Hermione slowly, rising to her feet. "That the Death Eater, or whatever it was, wanted to...shall we say...play with its prey first? Make her frightened by burning her parchments or blowing them about, then kill her painlessly?"

Viktor nodded. "That would make the most sense."

"Finite," Hermione commanded her quill. It fell still on the table. "Is this the thirteenth?" Hermione asked quietly.

"Yes, it seems to be," he said sadly.

"Viktor..." Hermione began tentatively.

Viktor turned to the weary, brown-haired woman beside him. "Yes, Hermione?"

"What...what will happen to Ginny Weasley?"

Viktor sighed. "I do not know, Hermione. I do not know."

_

Rain fell in sheets at the Burrow that fateful morning. It drenched the garden gnomes, overflowed the bowl of milk left out for stray cats, and tapped eternally on the tin roof, magnifying the sound tenfold. The water flowed down the hilly slopes of the fields behind the house, running in little streams around and over any obstacle in its path. At last, the water reached its destination, a valley on the edge of the backyard. It flooded down the steep, muddy slopes into the once-green impression of memories. Knee-deep in the water, a figure in a yellow macintosh stood in the very center of the small valley, head bowed in remembrance. A few sodden tendrils of red hair flew about her face in the biting wind, lashing across her watering eyes.

But the girl made no move to stop the beating of the wind, rain, and hair against her face. She simply stood, eyes brimming, hands at her sides, gazing unseeingly at the marble statue in front of her. The statue had weathered with time, its expression almost gone with the beating of the wind, and yet still the statue stood, arms uplifted, head thrown back. One of her wings was chipped, her halo was broken, and her eyes had stains running from them caused by rain and birds. A picture of herself stood before the girl, a crying, broken angel with no hope left, her arms uplifted to catch the last rays of sunlight, only to find bleakness and shadows.

At last, the girl pushed back her hood, shaking back her fiery mane of curls, wiping her eyes on the sleeve of her jacket. There was no use dwelling on the past, not when there was a future ahead of her and a family to take care of. Ginny Weasley tilted her head in defiance at the statue, breathing shallowly.

"I will do my best, I will do my best," she whispered falteringly. "I will look after them, I will...I promised...so I will..."

Unheard by Ginny, another hooded figure had joined her in the valley. After slipping haphazardly down the treacherous slope, the man now stood behind her. He reached out a hand as though to touch her shoulder, then recoiled suddenly and placed his hand firmly at his side.

"Ginny," he began quietly. The girl turned slowly, for she had recognized the voice. The man that stood before her was older, wearier, more weather-beaten than the boy she remembered, yet she could recognize him anywhere.

"Charlie..." she whispered, running into his arms. He held her for an eternity, feeling her heart drum against his chest. At last, he pulled back, surveying her tear-stained, stricken face with his soft blue eyes. "We thought you were..." she said.

"I know," he interrupted, taking hold of her hand. "I know."

She looked at him with such open trust in her once fiery eyes that he almost broke down and screamed. But he had delivered news like this before, and he refused the urge, standing straight and tall. "Ginny," he whispered. "I'm afraid I have bad news. But first, I have to take you out of the open."

Charlie blinked the rain out of his eyes and turned to look around at the rapidly darkening yard. "Ginny," he said urgently, tugging her hand. "Let them go. Your life is my top priority now...You need to think of your remaining family now."

Ginny took one last look at her brothers' graves before letting herself be dragged back up the hazardous slope. I'll take care of them...I swear I will...

_

"Harry? Harry are you awake?"

Harry Potter opened one of his bright green eyes and squinted at the person above him. All he saw was a splash of yellow, a blur of peach, and a great white light above that. He groped on his nightstand, knocking over a few books, until he found his glasses. He put them on, and the world snapped into focus. Leaning over him was Remus Lupin, looking like a frayed cable on its last wire. His hair had gone completely gray after Sirius had died, so many years ago, and his gold-rimmed eyes had long ago lost their twinkle. The ready smile he had once offered was all but dead, and his possessions were nothing but the clothes on his back. Harry sat up immediately, seeing who it was.

"Remus!" he said, frowning. "What is it? What's happened?"

Remus gave him a weak smile. "It must be bad times indeed if you associate my coming with the coming of ill news," he said in his raspy voice. His smile vanished as though a cloud had passed over it in the next second. "I'm afraid, Harry, that the Dark Lord has taken yet another victim."

Harry stared hard into his old professor's golden eyes. "Tell me," he said, without any emotion. "I've lived through my parents, Sirius, Cedric, Dumbledore, and..." Harry's voice broke and he looked down. "I've lived through a lot," he whispered at last.

"I know that Harry," said Remus quietly. "I know that, and that is why I wish someone else could take my place in telling you. But I must," he said, his back straightening. "I must tell you because Sirius would have wanted me to do so."

Harry twitched at Sirius's name but then looked back up at Remus. "Tell me," he whispered again.

Remus began to talk in a monotone. "This morning, at 6:32 am, Hermione Granger of the Order of the Phoenix came across a dead body in the dining room of number 7, Primrose Path, Little Whinging."

"No," whispered Harry, his eyes suddenly wide. He stared at Remus. "No!"

Remus kept talking. "The body was identified as Miss Ruth Anne Baker, 21 years of age, Assistant Director of the Order of the Phoenix. Also," he whispered. "Friend of many."

"Ruth," said Harry weakly. "That can't be true. It can't!"

"I'm so sorry Harry," said Remus, feeling his eyes fill with tears.

"No," said Harry, throwing himself off the bed and backing towards the wall. "I don't want your bloody sympathy! I'm sick and tired of everyone talking about me as though I were a baby, incapable of doing anything on my own! Just because just about everyone I've bloody cared about has died before my very eyes doesn't give anyone the right to cry for me or try to comfort me!" Harry found himself yelling at the one man that had always believed in him. "Do you know what happened last night?" he screamed at Remus. Remus shook his head, tears spilling down his face. "I proposed to her. I proposed. I finally got up the bloody nerve to ask her to marry me. And DO YOU KNOW WHAT SHE DID?"

Remus looked up at his adopted godson through watery eyes. "No, Harry, no..."

"SHE ACCEPTED DAMNIT!"

"Oh Harry I'm so sorry..."

"No you aren't!" screamed Harry. "You don't understand, you don't care! You have no idea what it's like, do you? He's after me, and he's killing everyone around me just to get to me! You probably think I don't care, is that it?"

"Of course not Harry..."

"BUT I DO CARE!" Harry yelled. "I care more about the people around me now than I've ever cared for anyone before! And I want to bloody do something to save them! But can I? NO! There's nothing to do, nowhere to go...I just have to defeat him, but first I have to watch as my world is torn apart! I need to defeat him now, Remus, and I don't know how!"

Harry slid down the wall and collapsed, crying, the green of his eyes standing out against his red, tear-stained face. "I don't know how..."

Remus Lupin stood by the window that opened to the cold, gray morning that dawned above a harsh world, and watched as his godson's world caved in at last.

_