The Harpsichordist

Chapter Eleven: I'm Torn

Harry wondered if he ought to go to Dumbledore.

It was late Monday evening, and Harry sat in a comfortable armchair by the fire in the common room, waiting for Ron and Hermione to return from the library--or whatever broom cupboard they were snogging in. Merlin knew he'd want someplace more cheerful than a cupboard to kiss his girlfriend in, whenever he got a girlfriend.

His eyes wandered up and around the common room and found Ginny's. She was bent over an essay, but her eyes looked up and met his. She grinned, and Harry wondered what it would feel like to kiss her...

No, he didn't wonder anything of the sort

He wondered if he ought to go to Dumbledore, because the Marauder's map was still empty of Luke and Tonks.

Harry had been looking at the Marauder's Map whenever he could get a chance, ever since he had noticed that the two professors weren't showing. Perhaps Dumbledore would find that information useful.

He usually didn't like going to Dumbledore, especially not after last year. If only Dumbledore had told him earlier about the Prophecy, about the fact that Voldemort would try to lure him there, then he wouldn't have been fooled by that vision of Sirius...

He still couldn't think about Sirius without feeling hot and sick with guilt. Fortunately, there was a lot to occupy his mind. For instance, should he go to Dumbledore? These were teachers missing, after all.

But then again, Dumbledore knew of Harry's map, didn't he? Hadn't he heard about it from Barty Crouch, Jr? Surely, if Dumbledore had wanted to know what it showed, he would have asked. And for all Harry knew, Luke and Tonks could be on assignment for the Order or something.

He knew that it was extremely unlikely that Dumbledore would allow a Muggle into the Order, but it was also extremely unlikely that Dumbledore would allow a Muggle to teach at Hogwarts, and that had already happened. Maybe the two teachers' absences were meant to go unnoticed, and if that was the case, it had certainly not happened that way. "Visiting a sick relative in California?" Yeah, right.

Well, Dumbledore would probably have things under control, and, even if he didn't, Harry had a suspicion that Dumbledore, like Mrs. Weasley, would push him aside, telling him that this was a matter for overage wizards.

But it was extremely odd.

* * *

Hermione wondered if she ought to go to Dumbledore.

"What's on your mind?" asked Ron.

They were propped up together in a small broom cupboard, and Ron's hands were currently exploring the boundaries of Hermione-space, in a very pleasurable fashion.

But because Ron's body was so attuned to Hermione's own, that meant he had undoubtedly noticed when her attention wandered off their current activities.

"Nothing's on my mind," she said quickly.

Wrong answer.

"That's not true," said Ron at once. "You've always got something on your mind. Even when I'm kissing you--" he sounded a little sullen, "--you're always thinking about lots of other things."

"Sorry," she apologized. "I'm tired."

"Oh, do you want to go to bed?"

Hermione couldn't help but snort.

"Sorry!" said Ron, sounding aghast. "That sounded wrong--I didn't mean--you know I--oh, bloody hell," he swore.

Hermione laughed. "It's okay," she said, rubbing his upper arms. "I know what you meant. Yes, I'm tired, no, I'm fine here."

"Oh. Good, then." Ron sounded relieved. "Can I--er--continue?" he asked awkwardly.

"All right then," said Hermione, feeling a little shy.

Ron's hands found her soft thigh bits and squeezed, and Hermione felt a pleasurable tingle shoot through her.

Her mind, though, couldn't help but wander back to Crabbe in the library, and what he'd said about Luke and Tonks. Should she tell Dumbledore what she knew? That would probably be a good idea.

But if Harry found out what she knew, he'd probably tell her not to go to Dumbledore; Harry would most likely want to mount a rescue operation at once, which would be one of the stupidest things he could do.

But Dumbledore probably already knew, Hermione realized, as Ron's tongue tried to invade her mouth. She parted her lips obligingly, and decided that it wasn't that unpleasant, really.

Dumbledore had spies everywhere--and this was Death Eater activity, so Professor Snape must have known about it months ahead, and they were already preparing a rescue operation.

Hermione let her brain wander back to Ron, whose hips were grinding in tight little circles against her own. She'd never really thought of that gesture as anything but lewd and licentious, but with Ron it was quite enjoyable, you know.

* * *

Wendy wondered if she ought to go to Dumbledore.

There was a very small part of her that knew, irrefutably and inexplicably, that Luke was ... never going to return. She couldn't bring herself to even think the word, it was so unbelievable.

All day Sunday and Monday she had been expecting him to appear around a corner, or to come trudging into the Great Hall, happy to see her, but annoyed that he'd had to walk ten miles in the rain to get there, or appear bruised and bleeding in the Hospital Wing, with Poppy fussing over him like a mother hen. He would appear, he simply had to.

She wondered if Dumbledore would know anything more than she knew already.

No, Dumbledore would come and tell her if--when--anything was heard.

But part of her admitted that he would never come back, and while the rest of her still hoped, still prayed every second for Luke to reappear, it was also assailed by an inexplicable knowledge that the smaller half was correct.

A girl could dream, couldn't she?

* * *

Vincent Crabbe went to Dumbledore.

He had done a lot of soul-searching in the past year and a half, ever since the end of the Triwizard Tournament. He'd watched Draco and Greg becoming more and more cruel, more and more unfeeling. Something inside them was going dead, and Vincent didn't like it. He was losing his friends, and it was all because of You-Know-Who.

Mr. Malfoy and Mr. Goyle, too--they had sent their sons frighteningly direct letters about their expectations. Over Christmas break, I expect you to kill at least two Muggles, to gain the Dark Lord's approval, had read Draco's. Hex a mudBlud, had read Greg's.

Vincent, darling, keep your grades up in Charms, because your Auntie Mabel's nose hair needs trimming, and she wants you to do it, had read his.

His father was a Death Eater, but his mother wasn't, and seemed to refuse to admit that anything could possibly be amiss, that Crabbe Senior simply worked long hours and had a dangerous job as a Floo Network repairman, and that his stint in Azkaban last summer had simply been a misunderstanding. So his father kept darker business out of letters, and hadn't mentioned anything to Vincent about following in his footsteps.

But Vincent had watched his mother grow more and more brittle and cheerful over the past two summers, as though convinced she could hold the world off with a happy little laugh. He'd also seen something else in her eyes--a sadness, a growing fear. She worried for him, she always told him that she wanted the best for her son: Even if you're not the brightest bulb in the lot, you're the nicest one, and you're mine, she would always say.

He loved his mother. He couldn't disappoint her.

And besides, Professor Luke had been really, really nice, and someone that nice couldn't possibly deserve to die. Vincent knew that nice and good were different--Mr. Malfoy could be nice sometimes, but he wasn't good--but in this case, Professor Luke was definitely nice and good.

First, Vincent had had to go to Professor Snape, whose loyalties he didn't understand completely. What did, "You can trust me either way?" really mean? But Vincent had asked Professor Snape if he could arrange a meeting with Professor Dumbledore, and Professor Snape had simply escorted Vincent straight up to the Headmaster's office without even asking what the meeting was about.

He had seemed pleased, though, and walked away down the hallway with an expression that was rather less grim than usual. So, now that Vincent was ensconced in a cushy chair in Professor Dumbledore's large, round office, Fawkes the phoenix resting on his lap, a cup of tea on the desk in front of him and a lemon drop melting in his mouth, he explained. "You see, Professor," he said, "I'm just ... a little confused."

"I understand," said Dumbledore. "These times are confusing for all of us. But go ahead, tell me what worries you."

Vincent thought for a full minute, sorting out all his observations from the past year. Dumbledore waited patiently.

"I'm worried about my friends," he said at last. When Dumbledore nodded encouragingly, Vincent continued. "Their fathers are telling them such horrible things--telling them what they should be doing, telling them what they're expected to do when they all turn seventeen."

He met Professor Dumbledore's eyes and felt like he was being turned inside out.

"And Draco especially," Vincent went on. "His father sends him horrible letters, and together they've plotted awful things."

Here it came. The moment of truth. If he told Dumbledore what he knew, there would be no going back. Could Dumbledore actually protect him from the other Slytherins if they ever found out? Would Professor Snape tell them that Vincent had gone to see the Headmaster? Would he be labeled a sneak?

He hesitated, and Dumbledore cleared his throat. "Vincent," he said gently. "Anything you tell me will not leave this office."

"Professor Snape?" he asked.

"Professor Snape is discreet," said Dumbledore. "He is very protective of all his students, and he will not put any of you in danger."

Well, that was about as encouraging as it could get.

Vincent shifted the melting lemon drop to the other side of his mouth. "I know where Professor Luke and Professor Tonks are," he whispered to his hands.

There was a horrible silence in the office. The fireplace crackled loudly; the birds outside trilled, but inside the office, everything was quiet. Even the portraits had stopped snoozing. Vincent looked up quickly at the paintings, and saw a portrait of Phineas Nigellus giving him a very appraising look.

"And how do you know this?" asked Dumbledore.

"Heard Draco and Pansy talking about it, Professor," he said. "The two of them sent for their trunks on Sunday--they're at their parents'. Will they be all right, sir?"

"I cannot say," confessed Dumbledore. He looked old and worried, though thoughtful. "Vincent, please, tell me everything you know."

"They're in Azkaban," said Vincent at once. "Professor Tonks and Professor Luke, I mean--they meant to get Wendy and Luke, to kill the Muggles, you know--Draco's father wanted him to kill Muggles over Christmas."

Vincent confessed everything--his worries for his friends, the letters, the Additive, and then the mixup.

When he finished, he realized that one of his hands was clutching a bunch of Fawkes' feathers, and that the bird was crying.

"I'm sorry," he whispered to it. "I didn't mean to make you cry."

"Phoenix tears have healing powers," said Dumbledore. "If Fawkes cries for you, he wants to heal you."

Heal him? Of what? He didn't have any bruises or cuts.

"Sometimes injuries are on the inside, Vincent," said Dumbledore gently.

"Please, Professor," he said, "can you tell me what you're going to do to help Professor Luke and Professor Tonks? And can you get Pansy and Draco out of danger?"

Dumbledore's expression turned grave. "I cannot tell you what we will do to help the two professors. That is my business," he said, though there was no censure in his voice. "And as for Miss Parkinson and Mr. Malfoy--they will have to make their own decisions. I believe you have made the right one today, and I hope others will follow."

* * *

It was past midnight. Ron and Hermione still weren't back, and Harry was very nervous. He could feel Voldemort raging somewhere, despite his improvement in Occlumency. It was extremely distracting, especially because he had an essay for Snape still to finish: The Uses of Knarl Quills in Dragon's Blood-Based Potions. He could just imagine it: Sorry, Professor, Voldemort was torturing someone and I couldn't focus, so that's why my essay isn't done.

The images were getting stronger and stronger--he could almost see the outline of a dark room, and a writhing figure, if he closed his eyes. He tried to make out more about the figure, knowing full well that he really ought not to be doing this.

Something snapped suddenly, and he was abruptly fully inside the vision.

Damn, he thought. Snape's going to kill me.

"Two days, Professor," he said in a high, cold voice, using Voldemort's mouth. "Two days, and you insist you know nothing of the Order of the Phoenix?"

Harry realized with a start that the tortured figure was Tonks. Where was Luke, then?

"I know nothing!" said Tonks defiantly, spitting out a mouthful of blood.

"Of course you do," said Harry/Voldemort impatiently. "You're an Auror, you fought at the Ministry last June, you must be part of Dumbledore's Order. Tell me what you know! Imperio!"

Harry caught a glimpse of Tonks' face, struggling to fight off the Imperius Curse, before he was sucked inside the link.

It was the oddest sensation: Harry was part of Voldemort's mind as it tried to submerge Tonks' will. He'd never felt such power, such raw, dark energy. It was elating, it was ecstatic. He was a master of the world, he could do anything!

Maybe he could find out where Luke was.

No sooner had the thought struck him when he was assaulted by a vivid memory, from two perspectives: Luke's body falling down lifeless, eyes cold.

Two perspectives? Tonks' and Voldemort's? Had Luke been killed? Or was this just a happy, imaginative vision on Voldemort's part?

He was aware of the struggle between Tonks and Voldemort--one mind wrapping itself around the other, like the tentacles of the giant squid attempting to squeeze the life out of a small fish. Could Harry help Tonks fight it off? How much information could Voldemort learn using Imperio? Would Harry be submerged, too, if Tonks failed?

"Harry?" said a voice. "Harry?"

"Harry!" shouted someone else, from very far away. "Oi! Harry! Wake up!"

It was like being pulled out of a vat of treacle. Hot treacle. And part of him was stuck to the bottom. "Ow!" he said, rubbing his scar and blinking up at Ron and Hermione.

He was on the floor of the Gryffindor common room, his feet in danger of being singed by the fire.

"What were you doing, Harry?" asked Hermione anxiously.

"Nothing," he lied quickly, scrambling back up into his chair. "Just dozed off, that's all."

"Dozed off enough to slip out of your chair?" Ron asked disbelievingly.

"It was nothing," he insisted. "Really, I just fell asleep. Have you finished Snape's essay?" he asked Hermione, ignoring Ron's snort.

"Harry," said Hermione earnestly, "you were doing Legilimency, weren't you?"

"No, I wasn't!" he said.

"What did you find out?" asked Ron. "Has You-Know-Who taken Luke and Tonks?"

Harry sighed. "Yes," he said finally. "He's got them somewhere, only I think--I think Luke's dead."

"What?" gasped Hermione.

"How?"

"No idea," said Harry. He rubbed his scar, which was prickling. "I just caught a memory of him falling, but it was from--from two perspectives, so I think--I think it was from both Voldemort and Tonks."

"You need to go to Dumbledore," said Hermione at once.

"Yeah, mate," said Ron.

"No," said Harry. "I'm not going to Dumbledore. He probably already knows."

"But--"

"I'm not," insisted Harry. "I need to finish Snape's essay," he said. "Did you two do any research or did you spend all your time snogging?"

Hermione flushed, and Ron said, flustered, "Hey, that's not on."

"Then help me with my essay instead of nagging me, all right?"

* * *

Wendy knocked nervously on Severus' office door.

"Come in," he called curtly.

She opened the door. Severus was sitting with his chair back on two legs, his feet propped up on his desk, marking essays. "I know it's late," she said apologetically, "but do you have a moment?"

His chair fell to the ground with a thump when she spoke, and a few essays flittered about the room, liberally slashed with red ink. His face went from savage to startled to closed in a few heartbeats.

"I--Yes, a moment," he said.

Wendy walked over to stand by his desk. There was no chair, and the only other place to sit was on the desk, which was inconveniently covered with parchment. Damn the man for being so deliberately unapproachable. "It's about Luke," she said.

"What about him?"

"He's still missing."

"Obviously."

Ouch. "Yes, obviously," said Wendy, determined to keep her temper. "I was just wondering if--if you knew anything--anything about it?"

"You mean do I know if the Death Eaters have him?"

"Yes."

"No."

A beat passed. "No?" Wendy asked. "No, they don't have him, or no, you don't know anything?"

"I don't know anything about his disappearance."

"You don't?"

"That's what I said," replied Severus levelly. He retrieved his wand from his robes and waved it at the fallen essays, which neatly inserted themselves into the stack.

Wendy was going to cry, and she was going to do it loud and noisily and right in front of him, damnit.

"Why don't you care?" she said. "Why the bloody hell don't you give a damn what has happened to a human being? I don't expect you to go running off to rescue him--oh, no, that's too much work for Severus Snape--but you could at least express concern that the man I love has gone missing and is probably dead!"

"Whatever makes you say that?" he said scornfully. "He's probably just gotten cold feet about the whole magic thing and gone wandering off into the wilds. He'll send you a postcard from France in two weeks. Why on earth do you think he's dead, you foolish woman?"

"I don't know!" she ranted, her face now wet and blotchy. "It's just--just something--I have a gut--you couldn't possibly understand, could you, about connections and love and all that crap, could you? You've never loved anyone, have you?"

She'd struck a nerve, she knew it. Severus' face went very pale, and his hands crumpled a few essays. With a great amount of control, he set them on the desk and walked around it to face her. Wendy had forgotten how tall Severus was, but was reminded as he towered over her, the lines in his face very clearly defined.

He also needed to wash his hair, she noticed wildly.

"I have loved someone," he said, and her heart skipped. "But she was stolen from me by a hopeless, bumbling Gryffindor fool who thought that being rich and clever was good enough for perfection. Lily Evans could have been mine if James Potter--yes, your precious Harry Potter's father--hadn't decided to shape up and ensnare her."

"So what?" said Wendy, feeling irrational. "You failed in that. Besides, they're both dead, and we're alive, and--"

"And what? We had a momentary lapse of control--or at least, I did, and who knows if you've ever had any control."

Ooh, that was a nasty blow. "Me? Have control? About you? Why would I need control? Whatever makes you think I'd ever wanted to screw you?"

"Shall I quote to you?" he said nastily. "As you quoted to me." He put on a high, false voice. "Ooh, Severus, right there, Luke's never done that. I've wanted you since I saw you, Severus."

Wendy's face felt hot, and she was still crying, but damn it, he deserved to see her cry, if he even cared about her--Lord, she was so confused. "As you said," she retorted, sniffling and gulping, "there was that damn Additive, wasn't there? So neither of us knew what we were doing, did we?"

He opened his mouth to reply, then closed it.

"I for one knew what I was doing," he said quietly. "Leave, please. I have marking to do."

Wendy blinked several times. His words hadn't really sunk in. "You knew what you were doing?"

"Yes."

"You--you knew--"

"Yes. Please, leave."

"No, I'm not going to leave, not until you explain things to me."

"Merlin's balls, woman, I can't explain it!" Severus roared, and Wendy took a step back to avoid the spittle that spilled from his mouth. "I don't know what happened to me that night, and neither, I suspect, do you."

"You approached me in the Entrance Hall," said Wendy.

"Because you were wearing that ridiculous dress with that slit that showed your thighs." He didn't quite sound scathing, and his lips were dry--Wendy could see the little cracks in them.

"It's a Muggle dress," she said defensively. "It's Italian, and very expensive."

"It was indecent."

"You should see some of the stuff teenagers wear in the Muggle world."

They were at an impasse. Severus ran a hand over his eyes, and Wendy's attention was drawn to his hair. "You need to wash that," she said.

"What?"

"You need to wash your hair."

"I bloody well don't."

"Yes, you bloody well do," she retorted. "It's greasy and oily, and it looks horrible."

"My hair is fine," said Severus. "There's no need to fuss over it--James Potter always fussed with his, and that made me so furious--"

"Why can't you just let go of Harry's father?"

"Because he won't let go of me!" Severus hissed.

Whoa, girl. This was major psychological trauma here. Serious schoolboy jealousy. "Fine, fine," she said, waving her hands in front of her. "Do whatever you want."

"I want to mark my essays," Severus said. "If you will please leave?"

"All right," Wendy conceded finally. "But--if you hear--"

"If I hear anything, I will tell Albus," said Severus. He closed his eyes for a second, and Wendy thought she saw a flicker of worry cross his face. "I--I hope things work out," he said.

Wendy nodded in thanks, and left.

Oh, she wanted Luke back. Please, please, she prayed, please, let him be alive.

* * *

"Get rid of the Muggle," said a high, cold voice.

God, he felt terrible--he'd been remembering every single botched audition of his life suddenly, every single moment of fear and inadequacy; he'd felt as though he could never be happy again, and then it had left suddenly, with the silver vapor and the voice shouting "Clear off!" And he'd been so relieved that he'd stopped paying attention to the oustide world, just lay there, reveling in not being horribly depressed.

A scream of horror from somewhere.

A realization. I'm a Muggle!

Someone shouted, "Abbracadabra," but... different.

He looked up, and the world went green. Idon'twanttodie, he thought.

There was no pain.

Just a rising feeling of weightlessness as he was carried up towards the ceiling.

The world grew dimmer....

and dimmer...

and dimmer.

No, let me see, he pleaded, and it was as though an Immensity of Thought indulged him and let him hover there, watching:

A woman sobbed--he hadn't known she'd cared about him so much. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry," she said.

He tried to tell her that it was all right, that he couldn't blame her, but she couldn't hear him. He was dead.

He was dead.

That was odd.

He was dead.

This was the Afterlife, was it? Not too bad. He could hang around here for a while. Pity he couldn't interact with anyone. That Immensity was pulling him firmly upwards, but he didn't want to go.

Not yet, he asked.

But you must go.

Please, let me stay--I'm not finished here!

You must go.

The pulling was stronger than ever, but he resisted. Not yet, he insisted.

The Immensity pulled away. I'll come back for you.

So now he was still hovering above the scene below, where the woman he cared for had been pulled off his body and was struggling to get free. Her wand lay abandoned several feet away, and one of the hooded men picked it up and snapped it in half.

Rage enveloped him, and he flew at the man, forgetting about his insubstantiality. But he flew right through him; it was odd--like flying through heat. The man shuddered.

"What is it, Avery?" said another man.

"Felt like a ghost passed through me."

"Muggles can't turn into ghosts."

"I know. Felt like it, though."

"Probably nothing. Forget about it. Come on, the Master wants this one personally." He jerked his head at the woman, who had been peremtorily Stunned by yet another Death Eater.

Muggles can't turn into ghosts? Then what was he doing?

Well, he was here, and he had things he needed to do.

* * *