A Touch of Death

CHAPTER TWO

It took me almost twenty-four hours to get to Hermione's house. I ran, and when I couldn't run, I walked, and when I couldn't walk, I stood with my thumb out and hitched lifts from scraggy old lorry drivers and lonely business women. But finally I reached the green door that I had always in my mind imagined to be blue. It's funny how you build little worlds for people that are nothing to do with reality.

Hermione, luckily, opened the door and gasped as she saw me standing on her doorstep. I suppose I must have looked quite a sight; I hadn't washed in a couple of days and fresh layers of spattered mud had been added to my already mangled clothes.

"Alright, Hermione?" I said, while she stared at me. "I'm in a bit of trouble. I've hitch-hiked the breadth of England and back, and I have mud from at least four counties spattered all over me. I need you to help me out for a bit. Could you let me in?"

This wasn't the speech I had been imagining in my head throughout the long hours of my journey, but I was tired and it was all that came out of my mouth at that moment. Hermione seemed to think it was good enough, however, as she hugged me on the doorstep and whispered in my ear, "Thank goodness you're alright. I've been so worried! Ron sent a letter ahead of you. I know everything, Harry."

She pulled me inside and shut the door, and surveyed me as I stood there in the hall.

"You smell pretty rotten."

And without further ado she pushed me in the direction of the bathroom.

"Pass me your clothes out and I'll wash them for you," she told me through the bathroom door. That was Hermione; ever practical. I handed my muddied clothes to her, thankful to get out of them, and stepped into the shower. I don't think I've ever had a shower that felt better.

"Use whatever you want," Hermione called to me through the door. She had obviously chosen to sit outside the bathroom for the duration of my shower.

"Whose is the strawberry shampoo?"

"Mine," she called back at me. "Use it if you must."

It smelt nice so I used lots and decided to deal with any consequences later.

"Whose is the girly razor?"

"Don't you dare!"

I chuckled at her and for a few minutes everything felt all right again. But my shower soon came to an end in the way that showers must, and within half an hour I was sitting at the Grangers' kitchen table, dressed in Hermione's dad's finest while the tumble-drier dealt with my clothes, sipping tea and being faced once more with the problem at hand. The trouble was, now that the rush and worries of the immediate aftermath were over, I found that I had too much time to sit back and reflect on exactly what had happened.

"She's...dead, Hermione," I said, sitting back in my chair. "I mean, really dead."

Hermione looked at me sympathetically over the rim of her mug.

"All those times I wished it on her when I was little, and I didn't have a clue, really. She wasn't good to me and she was responsible for the worst years of my life, but she was somebody's mother still, she was somebody's wife. Now they have to live without her. Dudley has to grow up without a mum. I wouldn't wish that on anyone."

"I know."

"And they all think I did it. Even Ron didn't try and defend me."

"Oh, Harry, he doesn't think you're guilty. It was a shock, that's all. All those people round his house, all there to question you. He doesn't think you did it any more than I do."

"Well, at least you believe me."

"But you don't have any idea who did kill her?" I was tired of this question, so I shrugged and looked down at my feet, which were just now providing a bed for Crookshanks.

"Harry," Hermione said in a desperate sort of tone that made me look up at her. "What are you going to do?"

I shrugged again. "I dunno."

The trouble was that my plan had seemed so simple: get to Hermione's. But now that I was there, sitting in Hermione's small kitchen with the sun streaming through the wooden blinds above the sink, I didn't actually know what I wanted to achieve by being there.

"Can I just stay for a bit? Just for a few days," I said, trying to make plans on the spot. "I don't want to make any trouble for you. I just need somewhere where I'll be safe, where nobody knows I am, so that I can think things through and plan my next move."

"Of course you can," she said, and I felt a surge of gratitude for her, for her reliability and steadiness.

"I can't let them take me away, Hermione. They don't believe me. I don't have Dumbledore this time to swing the trial in my favour. They'll send me to Azkaban if they find me. They'll imprison me for a murder I didn't even commit. Just like -"

"Stop it," Hermione said, but she didn't try and argue my point, and that just made things seem all the more desperate for me.

My inner troubles were cut short, however, by the arrival of Mr Granger, who put his briefcase down on the kitchen floor and said, as Crookshanks purred around his legs,

"Daughter, dearest, please explain to me why there's a strange man sitting in my kitchen wearing my clothes?"

x

When things had been cleared up with Hermione's parents they both turned out to be pretty easy-going, and I spent a happy few days living with them. Hermione and I thought it was best not to tell her parents the real reason for my being there, and that suited me down to the ground. I found that I was able to turn off in my mind the events of the past few days; and while this was hardly good for me, as I had intended to be able to use Hermione's house as a place where I could think things through, it did allow me to escape from things and relax for a while.

Hence the reason why I was so surprised when trouble caught up with me once more.

Hermione and I were sitting in her living-room at the time, lost in daytime T.V, when a harsh knock came at the door. Hermione looked at me; her parents were at work and not due back for hours. A small fist clenched in my stomach as she rose cautiously and went into the hall.

"Who is it?" she called as she put the chain on the door and I slunk against the wall.

"Please open the door, Miss Granger."

Hermione opened the door as far as the chain would allow and I could not see who stood on her doorstep, but I heard all the same.

"Miss Granger, I am a representative for the Improper Use of Magic Office. I have reason to believe you are sheltering a Mr Harry James Potter, who is wanted for questioning in connection with the suspicious death of a Mrs Petunia Dursley. Is this correct?"

"I wouldn't need to tell you if it was," Hermione said bravely, and suddenly Ron's voice echoed inside my head: don't get her into any trouble. If things start to look dangerous just leave.

"I see. In that case I and my colleagues exercise our right to search the premises for Mr Potter. Please stand aside."

"Wait a minute," Hermione said, stepping back slightly from the door, "you can't just blast your way in here like -"

"Stand aside, please," the representative continued. Hermione slammed the door shut on him and wheeled around to face me.

"Harry," she whispered urgently. "What should we do?"

"I'm going," I told her. I made my way quickly to the kitchen and Hermione followed, but I was stopped in my tracks by an explosive sound coming from the hall; the door must have been blasted off its hinges. Hermione yelped at the noise and brought the Ministry representatives running in to where we were. Quick as a flash I slipped through the back door and ran across the garden, vaulted the low fence and sped away across the large field that backed on to Hermione's house, but a fast binding spell caught me round the ankles halfway across the field and I tripped over.

"Harry!" Hermione yelled, and although I knew the game was as good as up, I struggled to my feet and limped away from the men that followed as fast as I could, trying to un-bind myself as I went. I got as far as the fence at the bottom of the field before one of the men abandoned all use of his wand and leapt at me, pulling me from the hold I had on the fence and pinning me to the floor, making me taste grass and mud as he used another binding spell to secure my hands behind my back.

"Harry James Potter," he said officially, "you are hereby arrested on suspicion of using an Unforgivable Curse to murder your Aunt, Mrs Petunia Dursley. We are here to escort you to a Ministry hearing."

"Just get off me, will you?"

He pulled me up off the floor and I noted that my hands were somehow attached to his behind my back. He marched me back to the house where Hermione stood, biting her lip.

"This isn't right," she said as we neared her. "You've got the wrong person, he didn't do anything -" She was shifting her weight from foot to foot and wringing her hands as she protested my arrest.

"Don't worry about me," I told her in an undertone as I passed her. "Say thanks to your parents for me."

"No, Harry, this isn't right," she repeated, following us through the house. "Do you hear me?" she addressed the man who held me. "He didn't do anything!"

"Thank you for your time, Miss," the man said, pulling me through to the living room where a burly wizard was holding a paper bag.

"If you could just place a finger on this," he said, and I turned my back to him so that my hands could reach the bag.

"Harry," Hermione whispered desperately at me. "You're innocent."

"Please don't worry. It'll come alright, you'll see," I said, with more reassurance than I actually felt. "I'll see you at school."

One of the wizards snorted in disbelief and Hermione started to cry.

"Hey. I'll see you at school, ok? Tell Ron."

Hermione nodded, the wizard with the paper bag counted down, and in three seconds I was gone.

x

What happened over the next few hours is now a fast blur of faces and places and bad feelings in my mind. I was taken immediately to the stone room where my hearing had taken place the year before, only the chains in the chair were not so understanding this time, and as they wrapped themselves around my arms I felt the first of the panic that would return frequently after. Dumbledore was there in the seats that circled the room, as were many members of the Order, including, I noticed with a plummeting heart, Mr and Mrs Weasley. And Fudge was there, of course, with his cronies, Percy Weasley looking eagerly on. I looked daggers at them all which can't have helped my case.

Dumbledore was first to stand and defend my case, but he made rather a bad job of it, having not been anywhere near me at the time and only having heard the reports of the incident well after it had occurred. The most he could do for me was to deliver a glowing character reference, and while Mr and Mrs Weasley beamed down at me I was sure it wouldn't be enough for the likes of Fudge, who had previously slated the fact that Dumbledore always stood up for me.

The prosecution, of course, was ruthless, led by a slimy little man with an irritating moustache and a hunch. He portrayed the events that he had not even been witness to as everyone liked to imagine them, and would have given Rita Skeeter a run for her money. Protested rather ineffectively by me at every available opportunity he proclaimed that I, bored and depressed and angered by having to live with my Muggle relatives, decided that there was something that I could do to stop myself from having to live with them; that if my Uncle had not woken up and seen that I had put an end to his poor wife's life then I would have gone after him and my cousin next. I was, quite understandably, seething by this point and burst out, "You're wrong! I didn't do anything! I never touched her!"

The chains tightened menacingly and I wanted to snap at them too.

"I stayed in my bed all night," I continued. "I only knew she was dead when my Uncle told me in the morning."

"And whose word can verify that?" Fudge proclaimed.

"Whose word can verify that he did not?" Dumbledore had risen from his seat and I felt a wave of relief as he said, "We have no proof that Mr Potter did not murder his Aunt, it is true. But at the same time, we have no proof that he did murder her. I think it is fair to say, therefore, that in the light of there being no evidence to support either argument we must assume that he is innocent, until effectively proven guilty."

At this point Percy Weasley leapt up from his seat and bellowed, as though he had been holding the words in all through the trial and quite possibly longer, "Prior Incantato!"

I hadn't thought of that. Neither, it seemed, had half of the onlookers, as a great gasp greeted Percy's words and Mr Weasley looked over at his son with a strange expression on his face. Dumbledore had slumped slightly in his seat, and I couldn't think why. But it didn't matter: Percy had finally given me my trump card, my way out. I gladly handed my wand to the wizard who marched over to me, and sat back in my chair to watch the trial swing my way.

The wizard handed the wand to Fudge, who imperiously cast the spell that would mark my ticket to freedom.

"Prior incantato!" he said. Slowly, very slowly, a misty image floated out of the tip of my wand.

I cast my mind back, trying to remember the last spell I did, but before I could think of it the image appeared fully-formed and hovered in front of Fudge. At that moment a hundred worms tunnelled their way through my stomach and the room seemed to drop in temperature as I looked at what had come out of my wand. It was my Aunt Petunia.

"GUILTY," Fudge roared triumphantly, and as he said it my head went numb and I couldn't quite hear the rest of the crowd shouting down at me, repeating Fudge's verdict. I looked over at Dumbledore but immediately wished I hadn't. He was sitting still, eyes boring into me, looking the way I suspected my father would have done at that moment - shocked and disappointed and completely let down all at once.

"No," I whispered, shaking my head. "Innocent. I'm innocent."

I felt hot tears pricking behind my eyes but ignored them, and tried to think of what to do next. Fudge was saying something but I couldn't hear him over the blood that was pounding through my head. I was vaguely aware of the chains being released and two wizards coming over to take me away. I didn't even realise that it was men that held me, not Dementors.

They had to drag me out because my legs wouldn't quite work.

"I'M INNOCENT," I yelled in Dumbledore's direction as we neared the door. I knew it was the only time I would have to try to make him believe me; try to make him see that I hadn't let him down. "IT WASN'T ME, DUMBLEDORE! I'M INNOCENT!"

Mrs Weasley was sobbing into her husband's arms and the whole room seemed to be in an uproar. But then we got outside the room, the doors were closed upon the scene and I was taken down a tunnel and finally outside into an old-fashioned black carriage.

I still hadn't quite registered what was going on. In my mind I was back in the court-room, looking at the spectral image of my Aunt and wondering how the hell it had got there.

It was only as the carriage leapt and jolted, reminding me of the Knight Bus, and we rounded the corner, that my fate finally crashed around me. Out of the barred window of the carriage, I caught my first glimpse of Azkaban prison, set on a rock far out to sea. The surrounding landscape was grey and bleak and drizzly and put me in mind of the North of Scotland, although for all I knew we could be halfway across the world. There were no roads, and nobody about; no people, no birds, no animals in sight, just thick, coarse grass and heather, and, along the coastline, sharp, grey rocks against which white waves were crashing. I suppose it was quite impressive scenery, but I was in no mood to take it in. I was fixated with the dark fortress that lay ahead.

I suddenly wished I'd made the effort to listen to the end of my trial; I didn't even know how long I was going to be there for. I turned to ask one of the guards who was in the carriage with me, but as I did so I fully realised what was happening; it was like being brought sharply to attention by a slap round the face. I had been charged with my Aunt's murder. I was going to Azkaban. I wouldn't see my friends for years, most probably. I was going to live trapped in a cell, like Sirius did, and I was going to have to bear it, like Sirius did. I was going to be surrounded with my worst nightmare, the Dementors, and -

And then it hit me really hard. I was going to be surrounded by Death Eaters, whose leader probably had the Dementors on his side by now, and all of whom wished me dead. I panicked.

"I can't go," I burst out, and the guards who were riding with me chuckled.

"No," I said, forcefully. "You don't understand. I can't go there. I can't. I have to get out of here."

I started scrabbling fiercely at the door but it was locked. I started to pull at the bars and pushed my fist through to punch the glass out of the window.

"Calm down, Mr Potter," the guard next to me said, and he pulled me away from the window.

"I can't go there!" I cried, and I lashed out at him. The carriage suddenly seemed far too small, and claustrophobic, and I ranted the same words over and over as I hit at the guards, the same words that were going through my mind: I can't go, I can't go, I can't go.

They didn't let me go on like that for too long. One of the guards hit me with some sort of spell and I passed out, and when I came to I was lying on a stone bench in a darkened cell, and despair and fear consumed me all at once.

I sat up, looked around me, and couldn't believe what had happened. I put my head in my hands and cried long and heavy.