Harry Potter and The Sacred Alliance

Harry Potter and The Sacred Alliance

Chapter 12

A dull emptiness lay over the dark street, the downpour having reduced to occasional dribbles of cold liquid mingled with the chilly air. To the average observer -- not that there was one -- this particular lane in Hogsmeade would seem completely devoid of any human presence, and rightly so, at this time of the night. However, on closer inspection, the faint sound of suppressed footsteps pierced the silence ever so lightly, though that was about all, that indicated towards the concealed stranger's existence.

A mouse-like creature, on its nocturnal trip in search of nutrition, scurried out of the post-office, disturbing the sleeping guard with a frightened squeak. A room full of hungry owls was certainly not a healthy place to stay in -- especially if you were a rodent and valued your life.

The footsteps stopped for a few moments, in which the unsuspecting guard went back to his peaceful slumber. A whisper was muttered by an invisible mouth, after which no other sound was heard for a while -- not even the footsteps. Yet hardly distinguishable footprints -- even more so in the darkness -- turned around the corner and headed in the direction of an old building, dim light escaping through cracks in the wooden door.

With a slight shuffle, a hooded man in a dark brown overcoat appeared before the battered door, a silvery cloak clutched in his hand, which he quickly stacked underneath his coat. The wooden sign above read "Hog's Head Inn" in the light from the illuminated wand-tip.

The door creaking open, the man entered the dingy and deserted room that was the bar, his average profile silhouetting against the candle-light. Three sharp but brief knocks on the barkeeper's quarters and a couple of patient minutes later an old man with long graying hair and beard emerged, an air of mild hostility about him.

"I come with news for the bird of fire," the stranger said, eyeing the old man with half-hearted scrutiny. In fact, he was waiting for the correct response.

"Fire harms not the Phoenix, nor does death scare it," came the hoarse reply.

Without any acknowledgment, the stranger extracted a folded sheet of parchment from his coat-pocket and handed it to the old barkeep.

Contrary to popular belief, Aberforth was literate, though the years had diminished his vision. Unable to make out the writing on the parchment in the dim light, Aberforth reached into his shabby robes for his wand. But the stranger was quicker; within a moment the letter was illuminated with reddish light emitted by his wand.

The parchment bore an intricate seal, delicate designs proving its authenticity. Letters in a Medieval script were carved upon it, which translated to modern English would read, "Institute of Magical Crafts, Ireland". Addressed to his brother, the rest of the letter was in plain English.

And charmed. Only an associate of the Order of the Phoenix could read it.

Dear Albus,

I apologize for sending this note at such an inconvenient hour, but this matter may be of much importance to you.

A short while ago, we had inquiries from two sources, each within fifty five minutes of the other. One at our institution, the other at the Irish Ministry. I shan't go into details, but both seemed to be interested in Professor Burke, the recently deceased member of our staff. And I have reason to believe that they are associated, if not from the same party.

We answered them frankly, not disclosing anything that shouldn't be disclosed. It seems that they are convinced with our replies, especially after the second enquiry, at the Ministry, which, in my opinion, was intended to confirm the previously obtained facts.

Yours Sincerely,
Phoenix Confederate #11

"It will be delivered," Aberforth said with a nod.

Returning the nod, the messenger headed for the creaky door and vanished into the darkness. Aberforth, on his part, drew out his wand and muttered "Obliviate" aiming it at himself. A confused moment later he had no memories of the contents of the letter. His weary brain could do without some puzzling thoughts.

Shrugging to himself, he extracted some Floo powder from a pouch and threw it into the fire, muttering "Hogwarts Headmaster's office".

* * *

Not a single sound could be heard in the circular room that was the Gryffindor Sixth Year Boys' Dormitory, except a few irregular snores from the direction of Neville's bed. The first faint beams of daylight filtered through the clouds, giving the sky a bluish gray color, under his gaze through the bedside window.

A look at his watch coupled with some quick calculations revealed that Harry had exactly two hours left before breakfast. In a last-ditch attempt to make up for his lack of sleep, he squeezed his eyes shut, trying to empty his mind of all thoughts. With the laborious Occlumency practice he had been going through last month, controlling emotions had become second nature to him. But disciplining his thought-process was an another matter altogether.

And the task becomes considerably difficult when the person you are thinking about is sleeping in the bed next to yours.

When it came to Ron's perception of the world, first impressions were of utmost importance. Opinions were formed on facts taken at face value. And his simple-mindedness, though advantageous in some situations, only prolonged the duration of his misconceptions. Add to that, an ego, that would place accepting a mistake publicly second only to death.

Not that Harry didn't have these problems himself. He did. But he also had a self-bashing conscience which always managed to crumble his ego in hours. Or days, in rare cases. Ron's would take weeks at the minimum.

Last night, it had almost seemed that he had broken the ice between them, as they had got engaged in a conversation with Dean and Seamus in weighing the chances of Quidditch World Champions, Ireland, in the upcoming Euro Cup in Germany. The Quidditch team being one of the few Irish topics Harry had spent time researching on, for his new identity.

However, the fragile illusion of some chemistry between them had vaporised the moment Ron discovered that "Kevin" was going to sleep in "Harry's old bed".

Sigh.

So close, yet so far.

And the total lack of interaction between Hermione and Ron had not escaped his attention, only succeeding in drowning him deeper in guilt. What if he were to really die in the future? It took quite an effort to shut that thought out, especially with the plethora of unanswered questions that it brought along, starting with what exactly had saved him... Only if he had Hermione's help...

With another sigh, he sat up, reaching for his trunk. His current insomnia called for drastic measures, if he was to have any rest before morning.

After some fiddling with the clothes in his trunk, his hands closed around the velvety surface of his Invisible Pouch -- an expensive but useful item that he had picked up in an old Magical Antiques' shop in Hogsmeade. Loosening the string around its mouth, he pulled out two flasks. The fact that he could not see their contents in the darkness did not prevent him from distinguishing one from the other.

One of them was cool to touch -- the Dreamless Sleep potion. The other was quite warm. Without doubt, the second flask contained the blue-colored Polyjuice potion, probably refilled by Snape only a short while ago.

Placing the warmer flask back into the pouch -- he would not need it until breakfast -- he uncorked the one containing the Dreamless Sleep potion, and swallowed a few drops. Hopefully that would be enough for two hours.

His last thought was that he would have to learn to brew some of it. Asking Snape for more wasn't something he would revel in.

* * *

Harry woke up to some gigantic monster trying its best to dislodge his left shoulder. By the time Harry managed to open his eyes, his hearing had cleared too. And it wasn't a monster -- it was the chubby form of Neville, calling loudly for him to wake up. A quick glance at his watch revealed that it was 8:44 AM.

"Gosh! Fifteen minutes to classes!" he exclaimed jumping out of the bed.

"You're some sleeper, Kevin. A minute more, and I was going to call a Professor."

Sleepily, Harry eyed the rest of the beds. As expected they were all empty. That Dreamless Sleep potion needed some diluting, he concluded. But thinking about potions, he suddenly remembered about the Polyjuice. He had last taken it after dinner. Somewhere around quarter to nine.

While his heart did a double somersault that he was sure would put gymnasts to shame, his watch confirmed that he had a grand total of sixty seconds before he changed back to good ol' Harry Potter. And becoming invisible in front of Neville, on the very first day of term, was not something he was looking forward to.

"Here, I got you your time-table," Neville interrupted his racing mind, handing him the sheet. "You've got Potions first up, which I won't be taking, so you'd better hurry up, if you want someone to show you directions... And Snape, the Potions Master -- remember the one with the hooked nose and greasy hair? He'll kill you if you're late..." Neville shuddered at this. Apparently the fact, that he was done with Snape for the rest of his life, didn't allay his fears for the man.

Harry checked his watch again. Thirty seconds left.

"Er... Thanks Neville, I'll be down in a minute. You'd better get going for your class."

"OK, you're welcome. But I have the period free, as do the others. Hermione's the only other sixth year Gryffindor taking Potions, you see? Snape's not very... popular around here, other than among the Slytherins." Saying so Neville made for the door.

But just as he was reaching for his pouch, Neville turned around. "By the way, you could ask the portraits for directions if you get lost. I'll be out in the Greenhouses with Professor Sprout. She wanted me to help her with preparations for our next class. Meet you there later! And watch the steps..." Though Harry appreciated Neville's helpfulness, part of him wanted to kick him out of the room.

Though that wasn't necessary as Neville had finally left.

By the time Harry reached the Great Hall, his uniform in disarray, and his haphazardly packed bag strapped to his shoulders, the only persons left were Crabbe and Goyle at the Slytherin table, frantically stuffing their mouths, as if this was their last meal. The free sixth and seventh year Gryffindors had already left for the common room. Grabbing a piece of toast with his left hand -- his time-table was clutched in the right -- Harry rushed off in the direction of the Dungeons.

Three minutes were left for the Potions class to begin, and Harry was faced with a dilemma. Finding his way to the Potions classroom on his own would look suspicious, but he could not ignore the truth in Neville's words.

When the average student arrived late for Snape's class, his/her House was sure to be stripped of five points at the very least. When Harry Potter -- disguised or not -- arrived late for Snape's class he could as well get ready for detention that very evening.

As he turned at the stairs for the Dungeons, he could spot the rigidly erect form of a brown haired girl in Gryffindor robes, walking briskly, a rather large bag clutched in her hands. "Hermione!" he called out before he could stop himself.

He would have slapped himself if Hermione hadn't looked behind. His voice was the only factor that had hidden his identity.

Gulping his half-chewed toast, he quickly began to make amends. "Could you... um, show me the way to the Potions claaAA..." The fact that he was stepping right into a vanishing step had totally escaped his overloaded mind.

He was just about to curse his luck when he realized the fall had done more good than harm to his case. Transfer students weren't supposed to know about the tricky staircases at Hogwarts. Instinctively he brought his hand to his temples, to check for broken glasses, before he remembered that "Kevin" didn't require glasses for his eyesight.

His breath caught in his throat, he got up from his awkward position on the stairs, using his palms for support. Ignoring the pain in his left ankle, he whipped out his wand and cast a Summoning spell to retrieve his time-table, which was currently floating away in mid-air. Hermione, on her part, was watching him with an annoyed expression -- which showed even after her apparent attempts at suppressing it.

Was she thinking his fall was deliberate? This was definitely going to be harder than he had expected.

"Darn the stairs," he muttered. "What kind of nutters designed this place?"

"Nobody's told you about the stairs? Hogwarts is full of such tricky stuff... Though you'll get used to it in a few weeks."

"Yeah, vanishing steps seem pretty amusing when you're not the one stepping on them," he replied smiling, as he followed her through the corridor.

A couple of minutes later, as they neared the Advanced Potions classroom, Harry decided to break the silence.

"Neville seemed to be truly terrified of this Professor Snape," he said, causing her to abruptly turn towards him. "Is he that bad?"

"Well, he is an expert in Potions... But yes, he's really terrible in particular to Gryffindors and in general to all students, except those from Slytherin -- his own house. He used to deliberately pick on Neville and Harry."

Neither of them felt like continuing the conversation. Soon enough, they were entering Snape's class, which incidentally had a grand total of eleven Sixth Years attending it. Padma Patil, Terry Boot and another girl were the three students from Ravenclaw, while two were from Hufflepuff -- Ernie MacMillan and Susan Bones.

Needless to say, Slytherin had the largest number among them. Draco Malfoy, Pansy Parkinson, Blaise Zabini and Theodore Nott. That would also explain why Crabbe and Goyle were still having their breakfast at the Great Hall.

Once he had finished the roll-call, Snape went about checking and criticizing the students' summer homeworks in his typical Slytherin-favoring fashion. Being a transfer student, Harry had been exempted from all summer homework -- and, watching the plight of some of his classmates, he had to thank his stars several times for it.

For the next hour and a half, Harry scribbled notes on distinguishing between Acidity and Alkalinity in potions, while Snape handed a flask to each of them for inferring whether the potion in it was Acidic or Alkaline. And all this went on, thankfully and amazingly, without a single Potter-jibe that Harry had gotten so used to in this classroom.

By the time the class-ending bell rang, Harry could not decide what was making him more uneasy -- the absence of any glares at him from Snape, or Hermione's silent treatment. The silence, he inferred, might have been partly due to his 'death', but mostly it seemed to be a by-product of the deep thinking she was apparently doing on some subject that seemingly warranted more attention than her potion. Not that he dared to ask what it was.

Consequently, when she asked him a question out of the blue, on their way to the greenhouses for Herbology, Harry's mind was on high alert.

"Kevin, could you see Thestrals near the stagecoaches..." She paused as if she had just remembered something. "Oh, I forgot you came by the boats!"

"Stagecoaches?" said Harry, keeping his face blank. "You mean the ones that were standing at the gates yesterday?" Inwardly, his heart skipped a few beats, as he realized what she was thinking about.

"Yes! Did you see any creatures pulling the carriages?"

"Er... why are you asking me this?" Why hadn't he thought of this earlier? Of course she wouldn't have seen the Thestrals, which she should have, since she had seen his 'dead' form.

"The Hogwarts carriages are drawn by Thestrals -- winged horse-like creatures..."

"Oh yeah, Thestrals! Aren't they visible only to witnesses of death, or something like that?" His mind was currently working extra hard to decide what answer would be safer.

"Exactly," Hermione replied, her puzzled anticipation showing on her face. "They were visible to you, weren't they?"

"Where? Near those horseless carriages?" Way to go, Potter.

Now he could clearly see that she was puzzled, her brow furrowed in thought. "But they aren't horseless... Haven't you seen... I mean..." she spluttered on.

"If you mean death, then no. I knew about my Mum a couple of days later after it... happened. I reckon you'd probably need to actually see someone dying, to be able to see Thestrals." He regretted saying the last sentence the moment he said it, as it instantly brought images of Sirius falling through the veil to his mind. And he could only guess what it did to Hermione.

But her expression soon changed to one of determination -- one that she showed every time she had some mystery before her which she could solve by a visit to the library. Harry made a mental note to check out any books regarding Thestrals from the library, first thing after Herbology class.

It was all he could do. Even though he hated himself for it.

* * *

Hermione was late for ADADA (Advanced DADA). Very late, by Prefect standards, especially for one who was supposed to be laying an example for others. She had spent the past two hours in the library -- thirty minutes of it borrowed from her truncated lunch, the rest of the time being free for her since this particular period was devoted to Advanced Divination, for those dumb enough to take the subject for their N.E.W.T exams.

However, unusual though it might seem, the whole time spent in the library was in vain, owing to the fact that she could not find a single book mentioning Thestrals. The one book in which she had read about Thestrals before, had already been checked out, according to Madam Prince. Tough luck.

She was sure she would uncover something in the restricted section, but even Prefects weren't allowed there unless they had a pass. Hoping that Hagrid would give her one, she hurriedly made her way to the ADADA class, part of her wondering who the 'secret' new Professor would be. Dumbledore was actually smiling when he had made that announcement earlier, so this Professor couldn't be that bad. Hopefully she wouldn't lose points for her lateness.

"... of the most important things in actual dueling is your instinct. Some of us may already possess this by nature -- they can duel instinctively. The rest have to develop it with practice, and believe me, nothing is unachievable with practice..."

Quite interested in what she was hearing, she paused before opening the door to the classroom, which was jam-packed with Sixth Years from all four houses. Five of them were Gryffindors -- all of them boys. Ron, Seamus and Dean were in a bench on the first row, while Neville and Kevin were sitting behind them. For some unfathomable reason, Parvati and Lavender had opted against taking ADADA -- though, if her guess was right, they would be cursing their decision the moment they learnt who the new Professor was.

He was currently eyeing her expectantly, as was the rest of the class. For a few moments, she simply gaped back in surprise, before remembering that she was late.

"Professor Lupin! I'm sorry I'm late but..."

"You were in the library, Miss Granger?" Lupin finished for her, smiling slightly, but it had almost seemed that, for a fleeting moment, a look of sympathy had grazed his eyes. A few snickering sounds came from the back. "You may take your seat for now. But remember that coming late will only result in your missing part of the lecture."

Avoiding the glares that a few Slytherins and Ravenclaws were giving her, she joined Neville and Kevin.

"Back to our topic," said Lupin, clapping his hands for attention. "Even the smartest witch or wizard would fail in a duel if he or she lacks a keen and sharp instinct. Simply the knowledge of all existing spells will not help you in the split second before your adversary curses you with, say the Stunning spell... or of the Unforgivables.

"One of the most effective maneuvers in dueling is something that doesn't require magic at all. In fact even a Muggle or Squib could do it." In the pause that followed, Hermione wondered in silence what Lupin could be getting at.

"Dodging. Yes, you may scoff at it, think that it is a cowardly act." Lupin significantly eyed the Slytherins as he said this, who were indeed scoffing at him openly. "But it's efficient -- in the sense that it will not drain your mental strength -- and believe it or not, it is the only way you can defeat the Killing Curse."

"Expelliarmus!" he exclaimed suddenly aiming at Dean. As far as Hermione could sense in the fraction of a second before Lupin finished saying the spell, Neville and Kevin had ducked beside her, while Dean was still sitting transfixed, as were the rest of them, including herself.

"And as you can see," Lupin continued calmly, catching Dean's wand, "dodging must be instinctive in order to be effective. It also forms the basis of several useful defensive maneuvers that we will learn later."

Handing Dean his wand, Lupin picked up a white chalk and began writing on the black-board.

Classification of spells :-

1. Space-based
2. Direction-based
3. Target-based

"Different spells reach their targets differently. Take the Stunning spell, for instance. Can anyone describe how this spell reaches its target?"

The fact that more than half the class raised their hands, besides her, did not astonish Hermione. After the incident at the train yesterday, anyone would remember that unmistakable red beam of light for the rest of their life.

Once Padma Patil had finished a vivid description of the spell that had hit her, Lupin resumed. "The Stunning spell falls in the first category. Who can guess the properties that characterize this category of spells?"

While Hermione was judging what properties would distinguish the three classes of spells from each other, Anthony Goldstein had already raised his hand. These Ravenclaws were quite fast, she would have to admit. Let's see if they can beat me.

"These spells travel through space to reach their target," he answered.

"Exactly, and hence they take time to reach you, which makes them the easiest to dodge. Three points to Ravenclaw. Direction-based spells, on the other hand, are instantaneous, and they affect the first target in the direction that you aim them in. Consequently they are harder to dodge than Space-based ones. Meanwhile, target-based spells will affect the target no matter what -- unless a counter-charm is used to prevent the target from being affected. Any amount of dodging will not help.

"Spells that do not fall into these categories exist too -- like the Conjuring spells, which do not have a target to reach in the first place. For now, we'll only deal with defending ourselves from the first two types. But before that," he continued, his tone suddenly challenging, "five points to the person who gives me one example of each type."

Hermione was the first to shoot up her hand this time. "The Summoning charm is a target-based one, while the Disarming spell is a direction-based one. An example of the space-based type, other than the Stunning spell would be..." She paused, searching her mind, before it clicked. "The Killing curse."

"Five points to Gryffindor," Lupin said, giving her a smile. "Now dodging on its own can hardly defeat your adversary. For that, we have a number of defensive and offensive maneuvers -- a combination of one or more spells and techniques. But what you'll learn here is mostly to develop your instincts. The best maneuvers in any duel are the spur-of-the-moment ones, since they can catch your adversary unawares."

Writing "Stun-Dodge-Disarm Maneuver" on the black-board, he said, "The most commonly used defensive maneuver. The Stunning spell, incidentally, is one of the few spells with a three-syllable incantation. Most have larger ones. Another spell with a short incantation, anyone?"

"Accio", Hermione replied again, earning two more points.

"With practice, the Stunning spell doesn't require much mental concentration either. Hence you can rain this spell on your adversary continuously with negligible mental exhaustion. As a result, it is primarily used to distract your opponent, as in this specific maneuver. Remember, the goal here is to first distract your opponent, then dodge his or her counter-strike if the opponent manages to dodge your Stunning spell, and aim a Disarming spell at him or her while doing so.

"Mental and physical concentration is necessary to judge the correct moment when you can hit your adversary. And the outcome depends largely on who can dodge-and-aim better."

For the rest of the period, the students practiced the Stun-Dodge-Disarm maneuver on their partners with mixed results and constant encouragement form Lupin. Seamus and Dean had paired up, as had Kevin and Neville, though Kevin didn't seem too happy about that. That left Ron with her.

She won most of the time, but that was, to her dismay, owing to the fact that Ron seemed reluctant at hitting at her.

"You've got to aim the Disarming spell at me, Ron, not at my wand."

"Yeah, right," as he picked up his wand from the floor, before abruptly sending a Stunner her way. But the aim being pathetic, partly due to the fact that he was still bent down, it had no chance of hitting her.

Taking the opportunity, she cast a Disarming spell at him, at which he promptly threw his wand high in the air. Though Hermione's spell hit him squarely on the chest, all he experienced was a mild jolt, since he did not have a wand to be disarmed of. A moment later he had caught his wand expertly with his Keeper's hands, as Hermione, Neville and Kevin watched in awe.

"Playing catch-catch, Weasel?" It was a mocking voice -- no points for guessing to whom it belonged. "Only if you could catch a Quaffle..."

"STUPEFY!" One Stunning spell could be dodged with some difficulty. Dodging four at once, in Hermione's opinion, was impossible. Proof in the form of an unconscious Malfoy was lying before them on the floor.

"Ennervate!" Lupin muttered, standing over Malfoy. "Miss Granger, Mr. Weasley, Mr. Longbottom and Mr. Burke, I think I made it clear that you are to practice only on your partners." But he made no move to deduct points. In fact, Hermione was almost sure he had flashed a brief smile at Kevin.

* * *

The air was neither warm nor cold -- another of the many entities comprising the world, all of which seemed to be perched on a precarious cliff. What would follow next was unpredictable. Her heart clang to hope, like the sky seemed to be desperately holding on to the last rays of the setting sun. But she knew that it was useless to hold on... it would inevitably ebb away, as would the rapidly darkening orange glow in the sky... leaving nothing but darkness.

Coldness pierced the early night air, sending a shiver down her spine. For a fleeting moment, as the red orb of hope sunk below the horizon, the now dim orange glow surrounding it seemed to brighten, giving the false impression of a comeback. However, it was just an illusion... an illusion of hope that she was deceiving herself with.

But tomorrow, this sun would return from the other side of the world, heralding the warmth of a new morning. There was no way the other one could.

"Hermione," a distant voice beckoned her, but she hardly dared to let her eyes leave the horizon, lest she missed some sign of her hope returning. But she knew that it was nothing but an exercise in futility. There was nothing that could bring him back. And yet she couldn't let go.

A hand closed around her wrist, forcing her to blink her brown eyes in order to bring back her mind to reality. Unsurprisingly, no tears came -- she had shed too many of them.

"Hermione, we're here!" exclaimed Ron, trying to hide his irritation at her absentmindedness.

Tearing her eyes away from the last strands of daylight, she surveyed her immediate surroundings. Hagrid's old but welcoming cabin stood before them, its doors as inviting as ever.

A few knocks, and the door opened to reveal an over-enthusiastic dog, practically bouncing around them in excitement. A very annoyed Ron tried his best to keep Fang from licking his hands wet. And he had reason to be annoyed, other than the dog's amusing antics. Especially after the highly unrewarding search, that they had conducted together for the past two days in the library.

All traces of the smile that Fang's behavior had brought to her face vanished after the dog started whining the moment he realized that one of their number was missing.

"Good to see yeh both. I was wonderin', I was, when you'd turn up," Hagrid said, busying himself with preparing some tea.

When he finally faced them, Hermione could see that his eyes were considerably puffier than what they had been a few hours earlier in their Advanced Care of Magical Creatures class.

"How's Grawp?" she asked, as they sat on the armchairs.

"Oh, Grawpy's doin' fine. Maxime found 'im a girlfriend in France. That's where he's staying now. We won't be seeing him 'ere though." He paused for a sip from his cup. "He was dying to say goodbye to 'Hermy and her friend', I can tell you, he was..."

"Hermy? Seriously, Hermy?" Ron interrupted, chuckling, and earning a glare in the process.

"So how are yeh both holding up?" asked Hagrid, looking like he himself was going to burst into tears.

"We'll live, I guess," Ron chose to answer, failing miserably in his attempt at a smile.

Time to steer the conversation away from these melancholy-inducing topics, Hermione decided. With a sideward glance at Ron, she got straight to the point.

"Er Hagrid, we were doing some research on Thestrals, but couldn't find anything in the general section of the library. Could you, by any chance, give us a pass for the Restricted Section?"

Hagrid regarded her for a second before replying, "I like yer attitude, Hermione. Nothing like studying to keep yer mind of things, eh?" He smiled genuinely before continuing, "Of couse, I'll give you one. Just lemme write the note..."

He rummaged in a cupboard for some time, before drawing out a quill and a parchment. A few minutes later, the two Sixth Year prefects were on their way back to the castle, the permission slip, in Hagrid's almost illegible scribble, safe in Hermione's hands.

* * *

The world was black. Frantically Harry turned in all directions, desperately straining his eyes for a glimpse of his surroundings, but all that met his eyes was darkness. Absolute darkness.

But, just as he was about to give up, a dark grayish outline materialized before him, as if his eyes were adjusting to the darkness at an agonizingly slow rate. Fighting his impatience, he waited for the unidentifiable object before him to get clearer -- which seemed to be playing with his mind... its sight sharpening only when he looked away in annoyance.

After what seemed to be an eternal wait, when his heart was almost at exploding point, a single ray of dim light lit up his surroundings. A womanly figure was slumped against a wall, unmoving. But what captivated Harry most -- in a sickening way, that is to say -- was her profile. She was probably the thinnest person he had ever seen close-up, her ghostly white skin covering the fleshless bones of her hands and feet. Her hair -- its color indistinguishable -- was in total disarray, looking like it hadn't been washed for years. A gray cloth covered her, its details invisible. An empty wooden bowl lay at her feet, its size easily outmatched by a pet dog's dining bowl.

Diverting his attention to his surroundings, he barely could make out the rough stony texture of the walls bounding the tiny enclosure he was standing in. A rusty metallic door stood at one side, having a caged opening at its center. It was this opening where the light was entering from, though nothing was visible through it.

A sense of pity filled his heart, directed at the state of this woman, whoever she was. In fact, her age did not seem to be higher than twenty -- if not lower -- although her bony hands and feet were telling a different story.

Harry had a sudden urge to communicate with this woman -- that being the only course of action he could take. He opened his mouth to speak, but no words came. He ordered his feet to move, but they seemed to have suddenly turned to lead. Was all this a dream? Some twisted figment of his imagination?

And then something did happen. The woman was raising her head, as if sensing his presence... A part of Harry longed too see her face... Who would it be? But another part of him was filling with increasing dread... fearing what the face would hold, as it raised itself gradually...

An abrupt blow in his abdomen jerked him awake. Quick as lightning, Harry sat up, cold sweat trickling down his temples. What met his eyes almost made him fall back in shock.

A short creature in strange clothes was jumping up and down on his bed, whispering hysterically -- if such a thing were possible. "Where is Harry Potter, sir? Dobby knows this is Harry Potter's bed! Please sir, where is my master?"

"Dobby!" he exclaimed in surprise, before remembering that he was not Harry Potter.

But, evidently, Dobby hadn't heard him, as he went about his hysterical behavior, his whispers getting louder and louder. "Everyone tells Dobby that Harry Potter is dead, but Dobby knows better... Harry Potter didn't die, did he, sir?" he went on, his eyes widening.

At Harry's silence, Dobby, assuming the worst, promptly busied himself in soaking Harry's bed-sheets with tears, calling himself unmentionables for not being able to protect Harry Potter. Warily eyeing the still sleeping forms of his dorm-mates, Harry cast a Silencing charm around his four-poster, before turning his attention to the house-elf.

When he discovered that talking to the house-elf wasn't working, he was forced to resort to drastic measures. Taking hold of Dobby by the shoulders, he forced the house-elf to look up at him.

"DOBBY! Don't blame yourself... you couldn't have done anything!"

"Sir is right, Dobby didn't do anything! Bad Dobby! Wretched Dobby!" and so he went on, trying his best to wriggle out of Harry's firm grip. Probably planning to do himself physical harm, Harry ascertained.

"Dammit Dobby! LOOK AT ME! Would Harry Potter have wanted you to punish yourself? Would he like to see you banging your head just because you didn't do something you couldn't have don't in the first place?"

"But master is gone... everyone says so. Dobby wouldn't believe it, but he doesn't know what to believe when he finds that Harry Potter is not in his bed!"

"You're right, Dobby, Harry Potter is gone. But that doesn't mean that he's gone forever. Who knows?" Harry didn't know why he was telling this, but it seemed to be the only way to calm the house-elf.

As expected, Dobby reacted sharply to this. Looking right into Harry's gray eyes, he exclaimed, "Harry Potter may come back? But... but Dobby knows wizards don't come back from the dead!"

Harry simply stared back, not trusting his mouth enough to speak.

"Does sir mean that Harry Potter is not dead?"

"It's Kevin, not sir. And I don't know, Dobby. No one knows for sure. Did you know, for example, that You-Know-Who would return after Harry Potter defeated him?"

For a minute that seemed to stretch on forever, Dobby regarded Harry's words, his swollen eyes travelling all over Harry's face.

"Kevin sir is kind, yes he is! But Dobby knows he is just trying to calm Dobby..."

"No Dobby, I mean it," he replied.

Dobby seemed to quiet down after this, but he still wouldn't leave Harry's bed. After a ten-minute wait, Harry decided that he himself would have to drag the house-elf away.

"Come on, Dobby, your staying here won't bring Harry Potter back. I'll take you to the common room."

Dobby did not respond, but complied anyway, muttering incoherent words all the way, as Harry walked him downstairs, taking Dobby's hand in his.

He had expected the common room to be empty at this late hour, but that was not to be. For, a familiar figure was reclining on an armchair in front of the fireplace, a rather large book on her lap.

But all Harry's efforts in not disturbing Hermione's sleep were wasted the moment Dobby spotted her. The house-elf rushed to her with a new vigor, bellowing, "Miss Hermione!"

With a Herculean effort, Harry was able to pull back Dobby before he jumped onto Hermione's lap, but she had already woken by that time. Harry knew holding Dobby in this way would look suspicious. But what was he to do?

"Miss Hermione! Where's Harry Potter? Will he come back?" Dobby persisted, while Hermione eyed them both with surprise.

"Kevin? Dobby?"