Refraction

Their doctrine apparently does not believe in or sanction the concept of martyrdom. They say there is no future in it.

--Alan Dean Foster

* * *

(Hermione Granger, The Rise and Fall of a Dark Lord, ©2002)

Despite the efforts of hundreds of witches and wizards from the start of the early 1990s, when indications of Tom Riddle's continued presence began surfacing, it was not until early 1998 that researchers learned of the method Riddle had used to bind his soul to the living world. Ironically, Harry Potter was the one to discover this key to Riddle's defeat. Whatever his subsequent behaviour, there is no question that the wizarding world owes its current peaceful existence to Potter.

As to the method, it was initially posited that Riddle had used Horcruxes to keep himself alive. However, after several of the supposed Horcruxes were revealed to be counterfeits, new theories were developed. Potter was certain that Riddle had used a binding similar to the spell ghosts use to remain among the living. His binding, however, had a number of unprecedented differences. According to Sir Nicholas de Mimsy-Porpington (longtime Ghost in Residence at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry and a fellow researcher), ghosts, in a subconscious, desperate attempt to remain on earth, cast a wandless spell that binds their souls to their cadavers (most typically to the bones) just before the moment of death.

Based on the evidence and the efficacy of the spell eventually used as a counter, my colleagues and I must agree with Potter's conclusions: Riddle had discovered this wandless spell of ghosts. His method of discovery remains uncertain, but he must have cast the spell consciously. Because he was alive at the time of the casting, he was unable to use his own body as a ground (the spell evidently causes considerable damage). He solved this problem by invoking the blood tie he shared with his mother, Merope Riddle. He used her bones as a ground instead of his own, then reinforced his link to earth with the looser ties of ally (flesh) and enemy (blood). Evidently, he re-cast the spell using his father's bones as a secondary ground on the day of his return.¹ When viewed objectively, such a casting is a great accomplishment. Tom Riddle must, in fairness, be considered one of the most powerful and innovative wizards of our age.

This particular version of the spell has both advantages and disadvantages for the caster. The primary ground (in this case, Mrs. Riddle's bones) contains only half the magical blood-link necessary for a complete binding, and the secondary will only stabilize the original bond, not increase it. In practice, this means that the wizard, being less than completely bonded to the ground(s), may inhabit a living body and act as one of the living, so long as he does not stray from his primary ground for extended periods of time. On the other hand, when deprived of living flesh, the wizard would be less present in the living world than a ghost, as per Riddle's discorporate years, but would no longer need to remain near the primary ground.

On an interesting side note, Sir Nicholas postulates that, were two binding spells to be cast on one set of bones, there might be serious detrimental effects on the soul of the original caster. To use the obvious example, if Riddle's mother had been a ghost--if she herself had cast a binding spell on her bones--then Riddle's spell would have overlapped and dominated hers. She would have remained a ghost, Sir Nicholas believes, but a ghost so consumed by every activity of her son's that her soul would eventually have become mad. Thankfully, there is no sign that Mrs. Riddle exists as a ghost.

Once the method of Riddle's return had been uncovered, the solution was almost absurdly simple, as so many great solutions seem to be. Most witches and wizards are familiar with a fairly uncomplicated spell (Resanguinus) which is commonly used in cases of disinheriting. This spell severs all magical ties created by shared blood. It has, at various points in history, been considered a Dark spell.²

Neville Longbottom cast this spell on Tom Riddle on 24 June 1999, four years to the day after his return. The blood ties to both his primary and secondary grounds were cut, the reinforcing grounds could not hold the casting, and the binding spell unraveled. Since his original body had been utterly destroyed after his memorable encounter with the young Harry Potter in 1981, Riddle should not have been able to cast a new binding spell on his own cadaver. Most believe, as I do, that he will not be able to rise again.

As to the later actions, the motivations, and the current whereabouts of Harry Potter, I have only theories.

____________________________________

1 Harry Potter, pers. comm., 24 June 1995.

2 Minutes, International Wizarding Conventions 849, 1362, 1600, 1885, 1887, 1889, 1919.

* * *

(Luna, 1998)

Seventh year

They've forgotten I'm here again. Heh heh heh. I love it when they forget I'm here. I get to observe them, um, in the wild. So to speak. Alone together is their natural habitat. Really. Not in a romantic sort of way. In a scary, co-dependent sort of way.

What five-year-olds understand, and then always seem to forget, is that hiding under the table is the greatest spying method ever. You blatantly crawl under the table in front of everyone, they all call you a freak, and then within ten minutes they've forgotten you ever walked in the door. Life is good.

So I'm hiding under the table. No, I never really did grow up. Seemed overrated.

"Here. This is it. I'm sure of it." Harry. Sounding much less crazed than he once did, and bless Draco for that. Though he doesn't sound...happy, per se. Still. It's an improvement.

"Hmm. Why isn't he a ghost, then?" Draco, sounding a bit more crazed than he once did. Harry's odds of survival have only just struck him, I do believe. He managed to avoid thinking about it for a very long time, but I guess even the most persistent of us can only live in denial for so long.

"I blew him up. He blew himself up. He had no bones. I dunno. But it fits."

"So you're saying..." the sound of a finger tapping a page. "Oh, that's sick, Potter. And strangely Oedipal. And I still don't think it would work."

"I'm sure it would work. I'm certain."

"No. Even if it did work--it's too simple. The man doesn't do simple and elegant; you know that."

"I think he's gotten weirder with age. Maybe he came back funny. He'd never have gotten to power with these convoluted, lunatic plans he trots out now, you know?"

"Point."

"This is it. It has to be. It's perfect."

"Maybe. Possibly. It's disgusting enough. But even if so, it doesn't explain how you're going to...ah...fix the problem."

A book slams onto the table. Pages turn.

"Oh. My. God." Disadvantage: I have no idea what they've found. I'll have to wait. I hate waiting. Hate hate hate.

"Painfully easy, isn't it?" What's painfully easy?

"Only if you're right. Potter, I refuse to believe no one else has ever thought of this. No, I refuse. You can't be right."

"I'm right. I know it. We should show it to Hermione, though."

"Ah! Good plan. Take advantage of our muddy resources. Let them speak sense to you."

"Someday, Draco, Hermione is going to slap you around the face again. And I am going to laugh."

Oh, so am I.

"Hmm. Hey, Potter?"

"Hey, Malfoy?"

"Don't be prattish; that's my job. I have an important question, and you will treat it with the appropriate respect."

"Draco! When have I done otherwise?"

"...and I don't know where to start. The question being, what do muggles think happens to dead people?"

Oh, me. I knew he was worried. He's really, really worried, too--otherwise he'd be better at hiding it. He didn't even make a stab at a smooth change of subject. Ah, Draco.

"There are billions of muggles out there, Malfoy. I think they each think something different. What brought this on?"

"Idle curiosity. What sort of things do they believe?"

I'm starting to think this is a conversation I shouldn't be listening to. They've never done this to me before. Maybe they had never really forgotten I was in the room before. This is the sort of thing they never talk about in front of me. If they'd just left to go to Hermione when they said they were going to...

"Oh, I don't know. They believe in...heaven and hell and happiness forever and fiery horrible punishment and rebirth as a squid--whatever. If you can come up with it, I promise that someone, somewhere believes it."

"Ah. So basically like wizards, then."

"Mmm. Basically."

Honestly, what was Draco hoping for? That muggles would have some great insight into the afterlife? That muggle theology would make him feel better about Harry's probable imminent death? What have muggles ever done for Draco Malfoy?

What have wizards? Wow. It sucks to be Draco Malfoy, doesn't it?

Must tamp down rising hysteria. Tamp, tamp.

"What do you believe, Harry?"

Oh, no. Long silence. Long, scary silence. Hysteria does not wish to be suppressed.

"I believe...that I'm going to find out so soon that there's no sense in wondering about it. That's what I believe."

I was right. I shouldn't be here. They always did know I was there before. I know how scary they are when you get them away from big crowds--did I think they would be less scary all by themselves? Idiot, idiot, idiot.

"Harry." Draco sounds hysterical too. See? The hysteria is contagious. I should leave. Right now. Before it spreads to Harry. "Harry Potter, if you die I will kill myself just to be able to abuse you for it for all eternity, do you understand?" Ah, he's trying to make light of it. I'm going to be sick.

"Draco Malfoy, if you kill yourself for any reason remotely related to me, I will spend eternity refusing to look at you, speak to you, or acknowledge you in any way. Do you understand?" Harry sounds calm, anyway. That's nice. Well done, Harry.

"Harry...please...I didn't mean--"

"I know."

"You can't die."

"M'not planning on it."

"That's crap, Potter! What did you just say!?"

"That wasn't a plan, Draco. That was a horrible fear."

"Well, I'd feel better if you were more actively planning for living, okay?"

"Yeah, well, one step at a time. I'm not suicidal or homicidal or anything anymore. That has to be an improvement. Let's just show this to Hermione, and...Draco. Stop. Draco, you're hyperventilating...oh, stop it..."

Sounds of cloth rustling, and what might be a sob, muffled in a shoulder. I always thought Draco was the strong one. Guess he was just the repressed one. I can't crawl to the door without them seeing. I really can't. Damn.

Oh, the awkwardness of it all.

"Hysteria doesn't suit you, you know. Your eyes bug out and you suck your cheeks in--you look a bit like a really pale house elf."

A muffled mumble that only long experience allows me to translate as, "Shut up, Potter." Harry chuckles, and quiet descends again, but comfortable silence, this time. I don't mind it. My heart rate even slows. A little.

"Come on, Draco. We have to see Hermione. Because, if I'm right, I might not die next week. Wouldn't that be nice?"

"...hate you, Potter."

"Oh, I know. Come on. You look fine. Well, okay, not fine...you look like you haven't slept in a week. Because you haven't. I thought the whole point of no Quidditch at night was to get you your beauty sleep--what went wrong, there?"

Their voices fade away, and just the sound of my hyperventilating under the table remains.

Neither of them is sane. Here all this time I thought I could count on Draco. Nope, wrong again. Chronic insanity! Madness in the pipes! The farm's gone all funny. Woo.

Well, children, and I hope we've all learned a valuable lesson from Ms. Loony. Eavesdropping is a Bad Thing. Shame on those who eavesdrop, for they shall suffer the death of a thousand regrets...

I think I'll go lick my wounds now. And why do I have wounds? Because I never learn. And I really hate not being able to blame anyone but myself for this...

* * *

(Madam Rosmerta, 1998)

Seventh year

I run a business. I am a professional.

I am friendly and I am efficient. I flirt a very little, and only with the customers who will buy more drinks if I do, and only if I know they won't take it seriously. Everyone calls me Rosmerta. No one knows my real name. No one needs to.

The world breaks down simply for me. Complications do not turn a profit. There are people I'll serve another drink, and people I won't. I used to go into the reasons for each. I would consider why a man should stop drinking: too violent, too drunk, too borderline suicidal. I've given it up. It's not my job to wonder about people. It's my job to serve them drinks. Or not.

It was completely unprofessional to deliver Sybill's letter. I don't really have an excuse. She's pitiable, Sybill. Maybe that's why I did it. Pity.

As I said, no excuse.

I delivered the letter to Harry Potter, as she had asked. He read it in front of me, and, Lord, he looked upset. Clenched fists and narrow eyes and...well. I wouldn't have sold him a drink.

He thanked me, so I suppose I can't complain too much. He also didn't ask for a drink, which was good. Frankly, I'd have been afraid of his reaction if I'd refused him. I wonder if he isn't a bit mad.

So I've done it, and with not much inconvenience to myself. I am now returning to my work and my policies, and I'm never doing anything unprofessional again. I'm already tired of worrying about what might have been in that damn letter.

* * *

(Hermione, 1998)

Seventh year

Harry's been researching feverishly again. We already have a Voldemort theory, don't we? He would tell me if he were doing more research for that. Wouldn't he? I'm worried; he only madly studies in times of imminent doom. He hasn't mentioned the doom to me, though. More worrying: he doesn't seem to have mentioned it to Draco. What sort of imminent doom is it, Harry? He's been odd ever since we went to Hogsmeade.

Related to which, the love triangle fiasco must stop. Why am I convinced this was Malfoy's harebrained idea? They are hidden in plain sight, I suppose...but it is still in no way acceptable! Now that they've brought Dean in it's just gotten beyond the pale. And Harry never speaks to me anymore. Nor to Ron.

Ron and I are just like, oh, Seamus, now. Just acquaintances. As if we had never been friends. When he teaches Defence, he treats us just like any other students. Perhaps it's not so far from the way he treated us in the DA, but...well. Last year, something awful happened to him. Well beyond the Pettigrew business. Draco and Luna both knew about it, but Ron and I still don't. I can see why Harry wouldn't have mentioned it to Ron, after his mother, but...why not to me? I can't even resent Draco and Luna--I'm certain they only know because they were there when it happened. Also, Draco seems to have developed a slightly worrying ability to read Harry's mind. I don't begrudge him that at all. I just wish I hadn't somehow lost the right to have been the one there. Ron and I were always the ones there before. I wish someone would tell me what I'd done. I wish I knew what was going on.

I've been saying that for the best part of the last two years, haven't I?

* * *

(Sybill Trelawney, 1998)

Seventh year

Mr. Harry Potter,

You believe I'm a mad, drunken fraud. I'm relieved, as I have worked hard to make it so. A sane Seer is a dangerous thing, and dangers are eliminated, as you know.

I do remember the prophecies I give. I remember predicting Voldemort's rise during your fourth year at Hogwarts. I also remember other prophecies I've given.

Understand this: there is no fate; there is no destiny; there is no single correct path. Living is danger, and every choice holds the potential for disaster--but there is always a choice. Nothing is inevitable. A prophecy is a series of likelihoods leading to an overwhelming probability. We Seers are human Arithmancy charts more than we are anything else--and, in truth, I am a poor one; only occasionally functional.

Prophecy. Every possible circumstance turning visible, and the most probable standing out in light and glory. We speak it before we have a chance to censor ourselves, and we speak exactly as we see.

The most probable, Mr. Potter. A prophecy is no more than a prediction of the future. It is neither guarantee nor doom. Anyone who would tell you otherwise has never Seen.

I've delayed as long as I reasonably can. I mean to tell you the true prophecy concerning you and the Dark Lord--the path that I saw. I do not know what Albus Dumbledore told you. I do not wish to know. This is the true prediction, as I remember it: The one with the power to vanquish the Darkness approaches...born to those who have thrice defied it, born as the seventh month dies...and he will be marked by the Darkness, but he will have power the Dark Lord knows not...and he alone can restore what was lost, though salvation and death will walk hand in hand...the one with the power to vanquish the Darkness will be born as the seventh month dies....

Interpret it as you will. I'm not certain the Dark Lord is to be equated with the Darkness, but prophecies have certainly been at least that obscure before. I would guess that you are meant to save the world and die in the process, but I wouldn't let it bother you. This is a probability, remember. Nothing is certain, and you may yet find your own way. I thought you deserved to hear the true prophecy, nonetheless, uncomplicated by the...agendas...of others.

Good luck to you, Harry Potter. Let us hope no one finds out about this note. I suspect we both know what Albus Dumbledore would do.

In all seriousness,

Sybill Trelawney

* * *

(Luna's journal, 1998)

Seventh year

It's gotten painful, watching Harry with Ron and Hermione. It's just so stupid. He loves you, you idiots! Can't you see that?

Obviously, they can't. But I can. And so can Draco.

I don't even tease Hermione anymore. I feel that bad.

Harry has this chess set. I don't know where he got it, but I have my suspicions. He takes it out every once in a while, and talks to the pieces. Doesn't play, you know. Just talks to the pieces. And only out of hearing range, and only when he thinks no one's watching.

With Hermione, it's more subtle. There seem to be places that remind him of Hermione. Places he'll stand and stare ... somewhere else, smiling a little. Parts of the library, Moaning Myrtle's toilet, the lake. Once I caught him looking miles away in a random hallway. Draco was with me, and he dragged me away. I asked what was up. He said, "Hermione Granger once slapped me silly, just there." Poor Draco. He looked so sad.

But Ron and Hermione don't know. To be fair, how could they? Harry's the master of blank-but-vaguely-menacing expressions. And if I told them, Harry would kill me. He's so obvious; it's almost as though he spelled it all out for me in advance. He thinks he's going to die (or something equally awful), so he's doing two things: trying to soften the blow, and trying to keep everyone he loves out of danger. Much as I'm sure he'd like to push Draco away, we all know he wouldn't make it without Draco. He probably thinks he's going to push me away too, before the end.

I'll let him think that. If it makes him happy.

That said, though...he's clearly Up to Something, and this is a Something he hasn't mentioned to me or Draco. I know this because I checked. He hasn't told Draco. Why yes, the apocalypse is nigh. So he's not pushing us away...but he's not exactly letting us in on everything, either.

I don't like it, and not just because he's being unnervingly distant. He has a tendency to go off alone with half-baked plans that generally lead to all the wrong people turning up dead. Forgive me if I find it worrying.

I can't stop him, of course. I mean, if Draco can't stop him, I certainly can't. So I'll just have to wait and see what desperately under-thought plan he's come up with this time. And, you know. Panic.