Blessed Belief

Blessed Belief

This room is breaking out

of itself, cracking through

its own walls

in search of space, light,

empty air.

_This Room--Imitaz Dharker

Chapter 1: Giles the Gargoyle

You feel the riveted texture of human flesh on your shoulder. It's a firm hand, a little clammy with the veins pressed deep beneath the skin. It's not a hand you recognise, not one that's patted your back or held your hand or guided your wrist. It's a rude hand, attempting to interrupt your reading, arriving unannounced in your world.

But you don't mind it much; so, you leave it there, hovering between upturned hair and skin, and you return to the article. Your thoughts have barely deviated from the article.

Snorkacks On the Move After Two Hundred Years?

OSLO - shocked holidaymakers are claiming that the now infamous Crumple-Horned Snorkacks may have finally crossed the border into Norway.

'I know it was them,' asserts Nobby Crepplesby of Bournemouth, a healer well-known for his less than conventional potions. 'We were standing by the side of the road, having a spot of lunch--you know, just so that we could say we'd eaten in two countries that day--and then they just waddled right past the border police.'

Crepplesby proclaims his loyalty for this publication. 'Yes, yes, and that's how I knew--despite all the evidence to the contrary--that it was definitely the Snorkacks! I recognised all the signs: the slow, saddened walk, the looks to the sky, as if all the time expecting to launch themselves to the sky. Everything!'

As you contemplate this incredible possibility, there's another jab in the shoulder, a few millimetres to the right of the first. It is harder than the second. You are not surprised. The hand is a stranger. Its owner assumed you're in some warped trance, oblivious to sensation. It doesn't occur to them for a second that you might ignore the receptors on your skin, that you might not look up, when your brain processes a second human presence.

Reports that disgruntled Muggle police-officers were later drug-tested have, for now, remained unconfirmed.

The Crumple-Horned Snorkack is known to have resided exclusively in Sweden for two centuries. While no magical explanation for this has ever been suggested, rumours are rampant that the Swedish Ministry may have had a hand to play. A mole placed within the Ministry by the Quibbler last year revealed that the Ministry is benefiting enormously from tourism generated by so-called 'Snorkack Quests'. As a result, speculation about tampering with the magical climate has been highly charged.

For the third time, the hand lies into your shoulder. It hurts a little this time, but that doesn't warrant reward, and it's definitely not worth interrupting such a controversial piece to humour the stranger with your attention.

Given--

"Lovegood," says an annoyed, male voice before you can even get past the first word. That's interesting: the rude stranger seems to know your name. But then, most people in the Ravenclaw common room know your second name--and the pre-fix 'Loony'. Evidently, the stranger does not know you well, but is not here to bully you with taunts. You are intrigued that they have made four attempts; perhaps they have something of importance to say.

If they are still there, you'll acknowledge them when you finish reading the article. Maybe they will leave. You hope so--

You can feel the pressing of your coin underneath your robes, and there's a momentary flutter of excitement. But it passes, and you continue to read.

Given this, wizards and witches excited by the tantalising possibility of a Snorckack turning up in Britain should probably, to use the common phrase, hold their hippogriffs.

"Luna!" says a more familiar, female voice. It seems you have attracted attention from others in the room. Again, this cannot be rewarded, and you don't lift your head even a centimetre.

This reporter has devoted a large portion of his life to the study of Snorkacks, and remains somewhat sceptical at the nature of--

The hand is across you eye line, now. It covers the entire scope of your vision. Not even a greying crinkle of paper stretches out beyond the fingertips. The hands are sweatier than you had originally thought; the owner is nervous, and you would feel for them if they dealt with it a little better.

You tilt your head to the left, in order to watch the faint of the blueing veins, trickling along the surface of his hand intersecting and curving to the edges of the extremity. You watch the palm lines, too, and wonder if there is anything to make of them. The hand really is a strange hand--you don't know it in the slightest.

With sorrow you feel a soft sigh of defeat escape from your chest. Later, you know, people will describe it as dreamy, lost, insane. No one will sense the annoyance, the frustration packed between the particles of oxygen.

Your head swings over to the right, and you look up at the stranger. The stranger has dark hair and a light tan coating his skin; you recognise him as a sixth year--the year above. "Yes?" you say.

"Dumbledore said he wants to see you," the boy tells you.

Dumbledore? You have always been fond of him, of course, but your personal interactions have been few. It must have something to do with the DA, you suppose. You become aware of the coin again, but it still doesn't tingle through your pocket. You realise that your eyes are still drifting lazily across the boy's face, and he starts to move away from you.

"Excuse me," you say a little louder than before, and he turns to you again. "What is your name?"

"Why does that matter?" he asks.

"Oh..." you struggle to express the thought without misrepresenting it. "Oh, it's not that I don't trust you, but Professor Flitwick... he told me, after the last time..."

The stranger contracts his cheek. He seems impatient; you don't like that, but there are greater crimes than rudeness.

"It's just that people sometimes tell me to do things, and I believe them." You feel stronger, now that the thought is out, but the stranger still looks confused. "And so Professor Flitwick--he told me to ask people their names, when they give me information. It means we can track them down later, if they're playing a joke."

The stranger raises an eyebrow. "And what makes you think that someone who was playing a joke on you would tell you their real name?"

You shrug. "I suppose I have to trust them."

The corners of his mouth prick, and you think you detect a trace of a smile. "Eddie Carmichael." He steps forward and offers you his hand. You stand up and take it, ignoring the sweat soaking into your skin. "And, as it happens, I'm telling the truth. Dumbledore stopped me outside Transfiguration while I was trying to sell some of my, err, potion to the Hufflepuffs--would you like an early order for your OWLs, by the way--"

"No, thanks. According to the Quibbler, those potions can make you recall information for the wrong exam. A few years ago, a student wrote about Transfigural enlargement on a question about werewolf bites."

"Yeah. Anyway, I was expecting him to take points or put me in detention, but he just said, 'Mr Carmichael, when you see Miss Lovegood this evening, could you please ask her to come and see me in my office." Eddie puts on a deep voice, impersonating Dumbledore. "And then he said, 'In future, Mr Carmichael, you would do better to sell Pepper Imps. Delicious. My sweet tooth alone could fund whatever endeavours you are putting your hard earned sickles and knuts towards.' Strange guy."

You smile broadly, now. Eddie seems personable, but a little dim for a Ravenclaw. "Yes, he is rather, isn't he?" You get up and skip towards the door, unable to remove the grin from your face.

"See you!" calls Eddie.

"Goodbye," you reply quietly, pushing open the oak door and leaving the domed common room behind.

A first-year tries to sneak through the gap, as you climb through, but it snaps shut instantly with a crash against its hinges. It stings your back, and almost traps the girl's hand.

"Wit beyond measure is a man's greatest treasure," the eagle knocker snarls at the girl, who has tears pressed against her cheek.

"What's the question?" you ask cheerfully.

"You're not going in," says the knocker.

You smile at it, as if this will endear it to you. "I can be, if you like."

"Pfft."

"What's the question?" you demand--a little more forcefully.

"A small animal is blind and deaf, and has no sense of feeling. It is impervious to all other stimuli. How can you call it to you?"

You turn to the first-year. "What's your name?"

"Sarah," she replies in a light voice. Her eyes never find yours, and her expression is painted blood red with embarrassment.

"Don't be put off by how the question is phrased, Sarah. It's just the Summoning Charm."

The door opens at once, though you think you hear the knocker grunt in exasperation. Holding it open for the girl, you dip both of your feet quickly onto the lightening blue carpet. You can't quash the feeling of excitement as you dance down the corridors. Dumbledore wants to see you. The DA will be at large once more.

*

The gargoyle stares at you, as if daring you to laugh at its stiff frown. You stifle an affectionate giggle and smile for a couple of breaths: it growls in return, baring its teeth. The ridges of animosity are visible where shadows form through the windows, and grey meets darkest green.

You place an idle hand on the curve of the statue and stroke the surface of the stone. Your hand dips in and out of the bumps and blemishes of the outer layer. For a moment, the gargoyle is silent as before. There's no violent snap of the arms, and no more disgruntled sounds of discontent. The gargoyle is beautiful and ornate; the complexity of the art, the magic residing in it transfixes you. You close your eyes for a moment, and you can feel the imperfections of the skin, the occasional clump of brittle hair. How could anyone find such a creature terrifying?

The gargoyle is purring softly. "You again." It knows you by your touch, the acidity of your skin, the clumping of veins and palm lines.

"Yes. It's me. How are you today, Giles?"

"I am well. And you, Luna?" His voice is heavy and low. "Won't you sit?" He speaks as if he is offering a comfy armchair.

You glance at the spot on the floor where you usually sit, pressed up against the wall to talk. "No, not today."

"Oh?" he sounds hurt, his voice quietening slowly around the lone syllable. You are in agony for him at once.

"I'm sorry, Giles."

"You don't visit me as often, anymore. You've stopped again, like you stopped when you were in that... club."

It has been a month, you realise, since you last sat and talked with Giles. Pity turns to self-anger. "I forget about you-- you being a gargoyle and all." You know he'll be hurt less by the honesty than excuses about OWLs. "I'll visit you. This week."

"This week," he agrees. "If you're not staying, what brings you down this way?"

"I need to go past, actually."

He stiffens at once. This is not a welcome announcement, you sense.

"I have an appointment with Professor Dumbledore."

"Then you'll need the password, miss."

"Hmm?" This is a surprise. Eddie hadn't mentioned anything about a password. "Don't you believe me, Giles?"

"I believe Luna, certainly. But no one can go down to visit the headmaster without the password--particularly not in these troubled times. Polyjuice Potions can be immensely powerful."

A surge of frustration launches itself from your chest. Anger and sadness follow in a wave of emotion. How could Giles of all people doubt you so easily? The urge to believe is irrepressible. And yet Giles who knows you best doubts you at a second's notice, like a thousand others. How can anyone believe in the wonders of the world if they doubted their friends so easily? You open your mouth and words spill at in a stream: "Eddie Carmichael came and saw me, and he said that Professor Dumbledore saw him outside Transfiguration and said that he needed to tell me to go and see him this evening, and then he said something else about Pepper Imps--but I think it's about--"

With the loud clunking of heavy stone, Giles shifts to one side, opening the passageway. A revolving staircase coils upwards before you, lit on either side by golden torches, their shadows forming as prickling thorns on the wall. "Thanks," you say bemusedly, and start to climb.

Dumbledore's door is thin; and from the scratching of his quill you can tell he doesn't have company. You push open the door with barely a whisper of friction, and as your eyes fall on the greying figure hunched over his desk, you realise that you forgot to knock. The disrespect astounds you, but before you can splutter your apologies, it occurs to you that he has not looked up from his parchment.

With the most careful shuffle of the feet, you edge beyond the perimeter of the room and caress the handle of the door, closing it without so much as a thud.

And then you knock.

"Come in," he calls, and not a hint of distraction resonates in his tone.

You enter a second time, and he is already looking towards the door: the eye contact is immediate and comforting.

"Good evening, Luna."

"Good evening, headmaster? How are you today, sir?"

"Ah, I am as well as one can be--and by that, I mean as well as one can be, when spinach has formed part of their evening meal."

You smile with all the serenity you can muster; you suppose he is probably joking, but it might be rude to laugh; and you don't feel much like laughing, anyway.

Dumbledore gestures towards the seat opposite him. It is not the kind of chair you expect to sit in front of a desk, with its cushioned padding sinking low between lime arms. It is inviting, generous. "Do sit, Miss Lovegood. You are too polite. I tell you, Luna..." His pause is littered only with silence, and not even a flash of change passes across his expression. "It would doubtlessly surprise you to learn how discourteous some of your peers are. Many of them barge in here without so much as a knock upon my door."

"Hmm," you say. "I didn't do it on purpose, you know."

"Do what, Miss Lovegood," he replies. "Pronouns are funny things. For the sake of expedience, we have sacrificed much specificity from our dialects."

"Hmm."

"You disagree?"

"Well, it's not that I disagree so much. But how would you have secretive conversation in public, if you didn't have pronouns."

It's Dumbledore, now, who makes the contemplative sound. "Ah, you are right, of course."

This takes you back. You had known Dumbledore to be a freethinking man, but you did not expect to make an imprint on him quite so quickly on him.

"Right, in the sense that pronouns serve that purpose," says Dumbledore, "but I daresay I suspect you are wrong, if you think that that makes pronouns useful, rather than treacherous."

"Hmm." You are trying to say as little as you can, utilising all the restraint within you to keep your words chosen, polished; trying, processing all your accumulated memories of human behaviours, in your attempt to not make that look flash across his expression. You are trying to keep the stain of mingled fear and perplexity from his face--Dumbledore's face--the face of cunning, the brilliant, the unknown, the strange. Nitwit. Blubber. Oddment. Tweak. His eyes mustn't suck inwards, away from you, in damning surprise, like so many others have.

And--all the time, as you try, the desire to explode with all that you know and think and hope... it burns like those prickling torches on the staircase. Flinching, your arms twisting away in shivery complaint, you bite your tongue.

"You seem--if I might venture a guess as to your emotions--a little puzzled."

"I'm late," you say simply, and that explains everything.

"You are? I was not aware that we had set a time for your arrival."

"Well, I didn't start reading the Quibbler until eight, and I'd read three articles before Eddie first tapped me on the shoulder, and then I carried on reading the article for a while. And then Giles wouldn't let me enter without the password, which I didn't have."

"There were several interesting pieces in the Quibbler today--though I highly doubt that Snorkacks are actually leaving Sweden. Quite preposterous."

"Really? Seems quite likely to me."

"Why, Luna?" asks Dumbledore.

"The Swedish Ministry have always denied imposing any spells that would keep the Snorkacks in Sweden, and I have no reason to disbelieve those who saw them crossing the border." As you say it, you shrug. "Why would I choose not to trust two different sets of people, in favour of conjecture? It seems to me that some the Snorkacks' DNA has mutated, and that this generation simply has the desire to see more of the world."

Dumbledore's smile grows wider with delight. His eyes are bright with personal satisfaction, as if proud of some achievement, the blue, sparkling in self-admiration. You don't understand; and the intensity of the expression demands that it be noted: but it is personal, and you can't ask.

"I believe," Dumbledore continues, "you were talking of your lateness, before I so rudely changed the subject."

"Well, it took me so long that I assumed everybody else would be here by now. Unless they're all gone already?"

"Everybody else?" asks Dumbledore.

"Yes, the DA. Harry, Ginny, Neville--"

" I'm afraid," says Dumbledore, "that neither Mr Potter, Miss Weasley, nor Mr Longbottom shall be attending."

This is surprising, but then the obvious sets itself upon you with soft footprints: "My father? You want--"

"No," says Dumbledore, and for the first time his voice his a decibel more or less than casual. You are surprised that you recognise this and it feel at once as though your ears are on some unnatural state of alert. You are out of yourself, in the room, hanging on the sounds and shapes of the office. It feels as strange as the DA, as conspicuous as a friend's blood on the sole of your shoe. "I would like to talk to you, Luna."

Dumbledore's words calm you, making you passive in the experience. For the first time, you allow your eyes to dart around the room, and there is too much to take in: the twisting and turning of metallic objects, the positions of windows and a cabinet; you take a second pass, a little slower, and your eyes fall upon a beautiful golden phoenix. It watches you from the moment you watch it--and then Dumbledore is speaking again--

"--might be a little impertinent of me to ask, but are you listening to me, Miss Lovegood?"

"No. I wasn't." The phoenix is a magnificent bird. You have read much about them and their properties: their interactions with their masters, the equality of life, the embodiment of being. There's a gleam, too, in its eye; and the fascination seems as equal as symmetry.

"That is, of course, quite understandable," says Dumbledore. "However, I would ask that you might offer me just a little of your attention for a while. What I have to say is rather important."

"Yes, professor," you say without looking away from the phoenix.

His voice does not hum its rhythmic reply, and the gap in the audio is as thunderous as the Snape's roar: Your eyes return to his greying brow. The crinkled lines on his forehead are not as firm as anger, but he is far from jovial now: "Sorry, professor."

"Luna," he says simply. There is no frustration etched on your name--instead, a coldness you have never heard in his voice before. "Later on this year--perhaps next week, perhaps on the last day of the year--Hogwarts will be attacked by the Death Eaters. On my orders, Professor Snape is to kill me. And that, I can say without a hint of irony, is very much the good news."

This is a shock. You had not expected this even on some secondary, subsidiary level of the furthest corners of your mind. The thought of him dead is a little repugnant to you--his graceful, sweeping presence replaced by a corpse, a fragment of a man.

"Do you believe me, Luna?" says Dumbledore.

"Of course," you reply.

"Good." He smiles again. "What I have just told you is clearly of a secretive nature. You must tell no one. You must even guard the lengths at which you think about it. Do you understand me?"

"Of course," you say again. You shift to the side a little, trying to find some degree of comfort in your stiffening legs. "I don't mean to be rude, Professor, but may I ask why Professor Snape is going to be killing you?"

"You may," he replies quickly, and then leaves a pause: "and to an extent I will answer you--though not right now and perhaps not even this evening."

"Okay."

"I have four tasks for you--things that I would like you to do for me in the coming months. Luna, these are not small favours, but I ask that you at least listen to what I have to say."

Offended at the suggestion that you would refuse him you say: "Of course I'll do whatever you want! Unless, of course, the next surprise is that you're a Death Eater."

Dumbledore doesn't smile at this; he's unamused, not by the suggestion, you think, but by the very subject matter. "First," he says, "I will need you to find the device that Miss Granger procured for you and the other members of the, ah, 'DA' last year. I believe it as some sort--"

You have removed it from your pocket and held the familiar, elegant gold up to the light. "You mean this?"

"Ah," says Dumbledore. "Yes, that is the device to which I am referring. I ask only that you keep it close--that you check it regularly throughout the year. Your friends may need you."

"Of course," you reply.

"I suggest, also, that you ask Mr Longbottom to do similarly, though--again--I must ask that you do not divulge anything more to him."

The insult stings at once, and from the pain at once, a defence springs up, guessing how it can respond most effectively. "Of course, Professor. But Neville's trustworthy! I trust him as much as anyone--with my life, even."

And then, of course, you regret it. Politeness, good manners, a cordial restraint... these were never things that you desired--never things that your Father ever valued enough to slip into your consciousness. But this was Dumbledore.

"I do not doubt his loyalty, Luna, but there are times when knowing things can have grave consequences--emotional consequences and practical consequences. Do you see, Luna? I am sure you do--or you will. I think very carefully about who I tell what. It is not simply a matter of trust and respect; no, it is far more mathematical and logical than that. And, if I must be honest, it is far less honourable."

Dumbledore's tone is as grave as you have ever heard it. Though he doesn't look at you anymore, you can sense that he is speaking to you; and it is almost as if he can't look at you, the way his eyes flicker to your cloaked shoulder and back to a spot on the wall. He pauses, gulping in the air, and then he continues, slower than before:

"The ideals that you are speaking of are ones that I hold in great regard--ones that I dream on, even, ones upon which I choose my friends. But in the games we play, of truth and lies, and life and death, and good and evil, they can only be factors. They can never be more than a column of things to be checked off for strategy."

His voice has turned milky, distant in deliverance, but not in thought. Air brushes between every word, but he is not stumbling. But to you, this monologue of an explanation seems foolish, reckless in its precision, even. You know for certain that the ideas of trust and loyalty and honour are worth something in their own right; and you are frustrated to see Dumbledore remove them from the equation of truth. So, you say, "Hmm."

Dumbledore's cheek twists in agitation, but he still doesn't look at you until he says, "I sense, of course, further disagreement. However, I must apologise and say that we have digressed too far. Enjoyable as those digressions have been, we must press on."

You nod.

"Now, secondly: next year, it is highly likely that Hogwarts will fall under the regime of those calling themselves the Death Eaters." He waits a second for you to react: you stay motionless--frightened, but not yet shocked, balancing on the blade of his sentence. "I will explain some of the intricacies of this in a moment, but my second request is simple enough: I ask that, to the best of your ability, you resist. Resist them, Luna, as you did before. Use whatever manpower is residing in Hogwarts to fight back.

"Wreak terror in the ranks of the imposing Death Eaters. Cause havoc in the lives of the worst teachers, and protect anyone who needs protecting."

"Of course," you reply.

"Good," he says simply. "My third request relates to Professor Snape. It will be necessary for you to seek him out at certain junctures and insure that he is fulfilling his part in the plan.

"He will resist you; he will be insulted; he will punish you, doubtlessly, for your apparent insolence. But if you are willing, this is of immense importance. You will have to undertake this task alone. No one must know that you are talking to him, for at this time, he will be considered part of the Death Eater's ranks

"I understand that this will be a particularly difficult task for you, Luna, but it is so very necessary. I believe you can do it."

You twitch. Your lips are refusing to part, but you look back into his eyes, and you say with all the willpower that you can muster, "Of course"-and you sound as certain as ever.

"Excellent. My fourth request is a little more complicated and the most grave. It involves the content of your Father's newspaper and your eventual capture by the Death Eaters. You will be at great personal risk: it is important that you understand that, and it is important that you are at perfect liberty to refuse."

Despite the vast lump forming in the back of your throat, this is even easier than the previous request. It's like adrenaline, now, and you only wish he would talk quicker and the seconds would fly by faster before you lose the ability to speak and respond and fight on.

You say it again, and he smiles as before. Your life is being planned with every sound wave; he's using you with every second of your attention. And that, you decided, is all right, fine, okay; because, after all, you trust him.

"And now," says Dumbledore. "I will give you just a little context to my four requests. I suggest you sit comfortably. This may be quite distressing." There is a box of tissues on his desk, and he pushes them towards you.

*

His voice jumps onwards, from point to point--bang--bang--bang, and the world has changed forever. Your head is barely above water. Below you, pools of truth and dark and light and lies mingle, until you cannot see your skin through the turns of the water. But you won't allow your head to fall--to dip your chin below its resting point.

You have missed the last thing he said entirely. It was doubtlessly of great consequence, but it barely occurs to you to ask him to repeat.

"And for tonight, Miss Lovegood, that will be all," says Dumbledore. "Unless you have any questions for me?"

Your feet act as levers, pushing you from your chair, anchoring you to the ground, now. You make immediately for the door and reach out to take the handle.

"Oh, and, Miss Lovegood?"

You spin on the spot, leaving your hand outstretched awkwardly in mid-air. The desire to was so strong, you had forgotten he was there; but you must say something, and prove mind is still clunking away. He must allow you to leave before he says anything else--before he utters any more truths and it becomes impossible: "Professor?"

"You never did tell me what it was," says Dumbledore kindly.

"Hmm?"

"The action of which you spoke upon entry into my office. I believe you implied it was an accident?"

"Ooh." You feel your neck crane backwards as you contemplate. "Oh, that hardly matters, now."

"You are wise, Luna, to believe the truth, and perhaps--just perhaps--you will be wiser still to guard it carefully for righteous ends."

You start to turn again, seizing a possible moment of finality--

"But, with that in mind, Luna, you would be equally wise to always knock on the doors of your friends."

The handle clicks in one hand, and the weight of Dumbledore's reading material crumples the flesh of the other. You turn the corner, and your head is in agony.

Never before have you been asked to accept so much information on the plea of another. The countless facts are spinning in your head randomly, refusing to collide and bond with each other. Never before have you surmised so much without a hint of logic: the connections, the plausible links.

Chaos has enveloped every corner of your mind. Your brain is too weary to impose order, too tired to find the solution: yet you are desperate to burst through those nurtured necessities.

A thousand colours drift across your senses, until it becomes easier to close your exhausted eyes and translate it all as black.

Harry's face spreads before your mind's eye; next, a vision of grey; the trust in those untrusting eyes; a withered smile... a withered hand; Snape's smirk, a piece of chalk flying at your sleeping eyes; and the brilliance--the great hall, a speech; he speaks of joy; ...despite all the odds, you are... joyous:

And though you have not nearly enough, you do!, because--like no one else could--you always have. The urge to do it is as irrepressible as the fear that, tomorrow, you might not be able to.

The pronoun slithers on the edges of your consciousness: You are prone on the ground.

You come to your feet, the dust sprinkling from your hair to the top of your face; and you believe as you have never believed before.