The Ransom of Albus Dumbledore

14. THE DEAD SPEAK

Sirius strolled into Death's den twirling Popsie's mortal remains at his side like a fluffy pink walking stick. He was planning to ask his host how it was he could manipulate material objects like this here in Death's house, yet would pass right through them when he was out on the material plane--except for those bodies Death loaned him, which were Charmed somehow to hold his spirit essence. And he would ask the question--but only after he received congratulations for the amazing coup he and Hermione had pulled off: rescuing dozens of people from certain death--probably before their time, although he hadn't quite worked out that theory either. That should be worth something--a bit of respect at the very least, or a room of his own he could retreat to whenever Reginald or Bertha came around, or maybe--just maybe, mind you--a few days taken off his 'allotted time', putting him that much closer to his reunion with James and Lily.

"What are you doing?" Death stared at him from behind his coffin-shaped bone-and-ebony desk. But then the Grim Reaper always seemed to be staring. There wasn't a whole lot he could do in the way of softening his gaze, as he hadn't any eyelids. At least the curl of his jaw line made him seem like he was grinning--though it was small comfort, given the tenor of his voice, which at this moment had a McGonagall-like shame-on-you tone to it.

"Erm--I' ve worn out this little fellow, I'm afraid," Sirius said, plopping the fuzzy corpse onto the desk. "I seem to have put a couple of extra holes in his tushie with that Watering Charm I used to simulate peeing, and he's just too full of biscuit crumbs--very uncomfortable."

"Hrumph--well--they're not meant to last very long." Death consulted a ledger. "I can give you a badger--only two days old--preserved under dry leaves--"

"Ooh--smelly--and rather too slow for my taste. How about something birdy?"

He turned some pages. "Thrush? Wren?"

"Eagle."

"I don't have any of those in decent repair at present. How about an eagle owl?"

"Sold. When can I move in?"

"Not just yet, I'm afraid. We have matters to discuss. Sit down. I'm not sure I like the turn this little adventure of yours is taking."

"Really?" Sirius sat on a loveseat draped with black lace antimacassars. They were literally dripping with jet beadwork, reminding him painfully of his mother's execrable taste in furniture. Death's remark bewildered him, as Mum's criticism so often did. Even in those times when he had done exactly what she wanted him to, she always had a nit-picky observation to make about his appearance or his attitude or a likely ulterior motive. He had been expecting a pat on he back from the Pale Prince or at worst a minor dressing down for misusing the taxidermic tribute that had been Madam Smythe-Hollins' Popsie. "What's the matter now?" he muttered.

"For one thing: this person you've chosen to help you--this Mortal, Hermione Granger--I was nervous about using one of Them in this affair to begin with."

"Hermione's the best--she's very trustworthy and smart as they come."

"That's not what I mean. I thought you said this was to be partnership."

"Well, it is--"

"Oh yes, certainly it is. She has tried to lose you twice already."

"Well--yes--but--"

"You have to keep a closer rein on her. She might have tried to interfere in the natural course of events at that sleazebag of a motel or even gone before her time, and then where would we be? I'd have her to contend with as well as you."

Sirius snorted at the thought, and Death continued in that testy, longsuffering way of his. "Oh, I've seen the way she treats that so-called boyfriend of hers. Patient she's not. And Hades knows I don't need another Know-it-All around here. Reginald fills that role quite nicely, thank you. And that so-called séance was a disgrace to the Dead. And those disguises."

"But--"

"And the lies."

"What--"

"Don't interrupt. What I mean to say is: can't you two do anything without using subterfuge?"

"What's the big deal?" Sirius replied. "In case you've forgotten, I have to wear these bunny suits. I don't have a lot of choice in the matter. And Hermione doesn't either. If she's not careful, she'll have the whole freakin' Ministry down on her. Hey, why the sudden fit of conscience? You cheat at chess all the time."

"There are grumblings...What do you mean I cheat at chess?"

"I looked it up. Black doesn't go first; you don't get an extra turn for capturing a pawn en passant. And you can only castle--with a castle. Oh, forget it. What do you mean: 'grumblings'?"

"There have been certain complaints from the Other Side..."

"What? You mean Scrimgeour has your ear? It figures. He'd do a deal with the devil if he thought it was worth his while."

"Your Minister? Hades, no! Not that Other Side. My Other Side. The rumblings are from my own constituency--the Dead."

Death laid it all out for him, starting with a background on the make-up of his 'constituency,' and it was quite a stunning revelation. There really was such a thing as Paradise. And there was a real Inferno too, and a kind of Purgatory. Yes, all that stuff about sin and retribution that the Muggles were always going on about--it was all true. There were levels of 'hells' that a soul lived in after death if they had been evil during life. And not only raw, rank, down-in-the-dirt evil, which could earn you an everlasting stint walking over burning coals or being buried up to your eyebrows in dragonshit: but piddling stuff like bossiness and hypocrisy. The payback for these lifestyles was nothing like so all-consuming and painful as the punishment meted out to murderers and arsonists, but uncomfortable all the same--and darn near as eternal in duration.

This gave Sirius a jolt and it dredged up memories of his own bad habits, especially his attitude towards girls. He confessed aloud that he'd broken the heart of many a witchling while at Hogwarts and had entertained minor lusts for most of the female staff as well.

"And I couldn't be bothered to work my brains. I enjoyed coasting and constantly twitted people like Peter who had to work hard to get anywhere. What a rotter I've been," he murmured at the end of his painful litany as he buried his face in his hands.

"Small change," barked Death. "You had a most challenging childhood. You pulled yourself up single-handed out of that quintessential morass of snobbism and hatred known as the family Black. Your mother alone would try the patience of Mohammed, Jesus Christ, Moses, the Buddha, and all the gods of the Hindu pantheon. And if further redemption were necessary--well--dying for the ones you love covers a multitude of defects." Death's attempt at a compassionate smile was rather ghastly, but comforting in a weird way.

"But let's get down to brass tacks," he said. "The Dead are grumbling about your antics, and with good reason. You see, they can observe events in the world of the living, but they have no real power to affect them. But they gave me an earful, and I've got to pass it on."

"You visit Paradise on a regular basis?"

"Heavens, no. Can't stand the place--way too much light and cheery music. Why do you ask?"

"Just wondered how my friends are getting along."

"Mmm--the Potters? They do come into this."

"Really?"

"Patience. All in good time. Where was I?"

"The dead were complaining about me."

"And your mortal companion. Well, as I say, I was having my regular weekly game of skip-stones with Charon at the edge of the Styx. And a crowd from Purgatory gathered on the other side, shouting about the unfairness of it all."

"What?"

"Well, as near as I could make out, they're frustrated because they have to watch helplessly while their still-living relatives make flaming messes of their lives, frittering away the family fortune or marrying a person who is bound to make them miserable or just generally making the earth a rotten place to live."

"I'm sorry to hear that--"

"But you--you get to hop back and forth, from one side to the other, trying to save your old teacher."

"Well, I'm not like them. As you've explained many times, I'm neither dead nor alive."

"But you're also a tyro, a beginner, an apprentice --"

"A newbie."

"Mmm--yes. They all feel they should have a right of seniority over you so to speak, to have a chance to intervene in the world of the living the way you are, and try to prevent Dad from marrying that awful gold-digger or keep Aunt Millie off the sauce or stop Uncle Mervyn from dumping his effluent willy-nilly into the Thames."

"I see, but they can't intervene, can they?"

"Well, they could actually, but I won't let them. It wouldn't do, you know. The Living must make their own mistakes. It is their right, after all."

"So what will you do?"

"The Dead--well, most of them--want me to stop you."

"Stop us? From saving Dumbledore?"

"That's where the canker gnaws. The magicals do want you to help him, but they have a problem with your choice of a partner."

"You mean Hermione?"

"Yes. They believe that she is singularly unworthy of the role of savior for the noble Dumbledore. They've seen her in action, after all."

"What do you mean?"

Death ticked off items on his fingerbones, making a clacking noise. "Forcing house-elves to give up their cherished way of life, showing up her schoolmates with her perennial hand-waving, looking down her nose at normal teenage giggliness, and especially leading that Weasley boy around by the nose, criticizing him at every turn, then taking offense when he seeks comfort in the arms of a more---er--appreciative young woman."

"Oh. Sounds pretty--uh--unfriendly--especially that last. Did she really do all that?"

"Indeed, and you know there are an awful lot of Weasley and Prewitt relatives--both Mage and Mundane--on the Other Side just howling for her blood. She's has hurt that boy--what's his name?"

"Ron."

"Yes, Ron--she's hurt him badly with her arrogance. To quote his U ncle Bilius: 'she makes him feel like a horse's arse every flippin' chance she gets.' End of quote. And she blames Weasley for the messes he, she, and that Hairy Petal fellow get into--"

"That's 'Potter'--er--'Harry'."

"Whatever. And now, they say, she's pretending to care for Wren--"

"Ron."

"Ron--luring him back into her clutches with tears over the loss of their headmaster. But if I know my humans, that will soon pass, and she'll be her old, cold self again--unless you and I do something about it."

"Me? What can I do?"

"First, tell Hermione Granger she will have to change her ways: become more humble, more sincerely loving, and honest like the heroes of old, or she'll have the wrath of the Dead to contend with."

Sirius shrugged. That's easy enough. "I'll just tell her to shape up, shall I?"

"No, that's not enough."

"It isn't?"

"The Dead want me to confine her in the Mystic Wood--a kind of Limbo-on-Earth. She'll stay there between tasks so she can meditate on her shortcomings, and she'll be judged on her behavior after each one of them. If she fails to improve or lapses back, she'll be taken off the case, her memory erased, and you'll have to find someone else to help you--someone more worthy."

"But there isn't anyone else--and it would be the worst kind of blow to her pride."

"That mightn't be such a bad thing. Needless to say, I have agreed to their proposal."

"You didn't."

"It was either that or face a full-scale rebellion. I am not keen on having protest signs lining the River Styx from now until Doomsday."

"But who's going to judge her? Not the Weasley-Prewitt crowd?" He shuddered at the thought.

"No, it needs someone impartial, yet compassionate and understanding of her lot: an intelligent, hard-working witch, not born of mages, a relative stranger to the life herself. I have appointed your friend Lily Potter. And to help you both to complete the tasks, and be a sort of liaison between the worlds, her husband James."

"That's--that's great!"

"Don't think I'm rewarding you. There will be strict limitations on your visiting rights and so forth--"

"All right--"

"I'm drafting the rules document just now--"

"Well fine, but I don't need--"

"Yes, you do--the both of you. I don't suppose you know what happened after you let Miss Granger give you the slip on your last adventure."

"No, do you?"

"Certainly. I had to visit the motel room they stayed at."

"What? Was Stacy--I mean--are they--they weren't k--I mean--what happened?"

"A certain Garth Bliss was on my list of fatalities for the day. It seems he is the father of the child in question. He attacked the mother in their motel room and the child--Stacy Bliss--offed him."

"Offed him? How--?"

"Some kind of spellwork. Quite economical. Slammed the fellow against the wall and broke his neck. I didn't know you allowed four-year-olds to--er--practice..."

"We don't. It must have been what we call Underage Magic. It's rather random and uncontrolled. Usually comes out under stress."

"Well, there was that. When I arrived to do my duty, the boyfriend was slapping the woman around, twisting her arm, threatening to burn her with a cigarette--"

"Right in front of her daughter. Yes, that would do it. But that would have alerted the Ministry. Did you see any of our folks around?"

"I don't stay for the aftermath, just break the glass, send the soul to its final resting place--in this case the seventh level of Hell--and move on to the next one."

~*~

Sirius was beside himself with joy at the prospect of seeing James again, and sooner than he expected, but his eagerness was tempered with the knowledge of the sickening news he was going to have to break to Hermione. Now Dumbledore's fate rested on a great deal more than their combined intelligence and her bravery and ability to dodge Scrimgeour's minions; now she had to become a living saint as well.

He gritted his beak and started his downward descent. He remembered he had been quite decent on a broomstick once, but trying to steer with your own wings and a tail were something else again. Although still high in the air, he could see the house quite clearly--a red roof, Death had said, backed up to a wood, with a neat border of purple petunias and white phlox alternating on the walkway. His Ghastliness been there a couple of days before helping a neighbors' elderly foxhound find the way to dog heaven. Thank Circe for an owl's superior vision. It wasn't quite the match of that kestrel he'd inhabited a few weeks ago, but it would more than do.

It was a rather painful conversation he would be holding with Hermione. But he had to agree in part with Lord Death: although she was a staunch friend of Harry's, he'd always thought of her as a rather frigid type. He'd frankly hesitated asking her to do this job with him, but when one considered the alternatives, what choice did he have? Tonks? Ron? There were too many liabilities with those two. Shacklebolt? He'd never trusted button-down government types and wasn't ready to start now. And Harry? Well, Harry had to get ready for Voldemort.

It was the right decision; he was sure of it now. She'd proved her mettle in these first two tasks. But Death was right; she had a lot of shortcomings. Something had to be done about her bossiness, for instance. That had come out in spades during the first task. What did she think he was going to do--just stay by the roadside, licking his doggie balls while she went off into those houses all by herself? No way. He'd had enough of sitting around at Grimmauld Place.

She could never have pulled off that séance without him. But did she admit it? since then, he had heard no scrap of a thank-you, no 'Attaboy, Piddles' thrown his way. And she had gone off with that wild-eyed mother and her little girl without so much as a by-your-leave. He shuddered. Under slightly altered circumstances, it might have been Hermione that Death came for yesterday.

~*~

"You're late," she said as he fluttered in through the kitchen window. "My parents will be home soon."

"Tu--whooo. I had a date--with Death," Sirius hooted, with as much menace as he could manage. He'd always wanted to say something chillingly final like that.

Hermione just arched her eyebrows. She had no sense of the dramatic moment. "What did he have to say?"

"Lots." And you won't like it much, he thought. "But first, tell me about your adventure with Stacy and her mum."

"How did you know we had an adventure?"

"Death was there too. I understand little Stacy flexed her magical muscle and made her bad dad go bye-bye--permanently."

Hermione only murmured, "So he told you all about it?" She was engrossed in a newspaper spread out on the table.

He flew over to her. "Just the bare bones, so to speak. So what else happened? Did the Aurors show up?"

"Did they! I had just walked out to the front desk to get help when I heard the pop of them Apparating right into the room. I listened at the door a minute to make sure things were all right. I figured they'd take care of the situation. And they did. Quite nicely." She tapped the newspaper.

Sirius read the headline: Man Found Dead in Motel and the story bar: "Girlfriend and Child Unconscious, but Alive." "Hmm--they're calling it 'a drug-related hit,' whatever that is."

Hermione shook her head. "I've got to thank those Aurors."

"Yeah, I'm sure they did a little memory-altering."

"More than a little, thank heavens. You'll notice the article doesn't mention them looking for a girl with bushy-brown hair. So I guess the Aurors didn't ask Darla any questions--just Obliviated her whole day."

"Hmm..." He read, " 'Mr. Bliss was hurled against the wall. Officers at the scene gave a preliminary theory that Death was due to asphyxiation or internal bleeding. A quantity of marijuana was found under the deceased's car seat. His girlfriend, Miss Darla Mudge had some cuts about her face. Her daughter Stacy was unhurt. Questioning of the mother has been inconclusive. Police are looking for a large man, possibly a wrestler...' So no one remembers you."

"I didn't approach the front desk, just sat with Stacy in the lounge while her mother got them registered."

"Hoo! That's great--but I'm afraid it's about the only good news you'll hear today." He told her about his conversation with Old Skull and Bones.

"I--I'm on trial?"

"Not exactly, but they--Lily and James--will be watching you oh-so-carefully."

"That's not fair. I'm risking my life already, and now, I'm to be a virtual prisoner between tasks--"

"Whoot! You're preaching to the choir here, Hermione, but it's now an added condition of our rescuing Dumbledore. Are you still in?"

"Of course, but--"

"If it'll help any, I told Death I wanted to be able to stay with you, so you wouldn't be lonely."

"Oh. That's nice."

"Don't mention it. You'd do the same for me, I'm sure. I did get one perk out of the whole mess."

"What's that?"

"I get to communicate directly with James and Lily."

"Sirius, that's wonderful!"

"And another good part is they'll be able to help us out a bit."

"How's that?"

"I'm not sure. Death was still haggling over the details of our 'agreement' when Reg showed up to put his Knut's worth in, and I had to get out of there. Information mostly, I guess. Lily and James were pretty close to Dumbledore their last year. So they might have a clue what some of the Tasks are about, even though it's been quite a while...And, as Old Scythe-Swinger said, the Dead can see all over the world--eavesdrop sort of--on the Ministry and all--so if we have any questions--"

"Like about what some parts of the list mean? Oh that would be great. I'm still stumped on the meaning of this next one."

"You mean: 'sv lvrs frm M McF & Nrcssa Mlfy.'"

"Yes. I get the 'Narcissa Malfoy' part, and 'frm' is probably 'from' but the rest makes no sense whatsoever. 'M McF' must be someone's name too, but--" she gestured helplessly.

"I'll have them get on it right away. But you're all right with being tested like this--and imprisoned?"

"What choice do I have? We've got to save Dumbledore, Sirius. Erm--I don't suppose they told you the actual consequences should I lapse into my old ways?"

"Well, that, I'm afraid is the bad part. You'll be--er--replaced and your memory wiped."

"Oh, that's dreadful. Who would you get to help you?"

"I haven't a clue. As I told you, Hermione, you were my first choice, but when I think about it, you're my only choice."

"What about Ron?"

"I don't know. He seems a little--scatty--"

"He's not, you know. He's very bright. He just doesn't always appreciate the seriousness of things like-- studying."

"I can relate to that."

"I bet you can! Why did they choose Lily and James to be my judges?"

"Lily was a lot like you in her school days, and they feel she understands you better than most. James is about as different from you as it's possible to be--except in intelligence, of course."

"That makes sense--I suppose. I'm surprised they didn't make you one of the judges too."

"Why would they do that?"

"Well, for all your--erm--faults, you have always been yourself, and supremely--one might say brutally-- honest with everyone you meet. Except for when you were running around as a dog of course."

"Hmmm...no actually, I believe that as Padfoot, I retained all of my best qualities and showed some of my hidden ones to their fullest: affection, loyalty, playfulness." He tried imitating the faithful companion, panting alertly, ears pricked, tail wagging, but in his owlish form, the effect came off as a bristling bird with its tongue caught in its beak and a bad case of ear mites.

But Hermione seemed to understand nonetheless. "That's true, you know. Faithful Fido--it suits you."

"Except with women," he said, a bit forlorn. "Listen, I'm going to have a first meeting with James and Lily and ask for some clues about this next challenge. And I'm trading in this body for something fresher."

"Good idea," she said, "When am I going to be transported to Limbo?"

"I'm not sure. Any time now, I guess. I'll find you though."

She nodded ruefully and watched him take off towards the sun.