Chapter Eight
“You don’t think we could persuade Dumbledore to hire Snape as Defense Against the Darks Arts teacher, do you?” Hermione asked Harry. They were strolling through Diagon Alley the night before the train was to leave for Hogwarts. Ron frowned but said nothing. “I mean we’ve gone and lost another one- Madam LeClair.”
“She was good,” Ron said.
“Yes, but you have to admit Snape was better and he only taught the class for a few weeks,” Hermione said. “This is our last year and it’s important that we learn all we can. We have to pass our N.E.W.T.S.”
They strolled past Lavender Brown and Seamus Finnigan who were acting as their guard. Harry had a continuous Hogwarts’ escort wherever he went while in Diagon Alley.
He had left his Romani family and Nadya just two days before. They would travel until Fall and then camp in a village some distance from Hogwarts. Harry knew that he was going to miss her even as they were saying goodbye. He also knew that given the way his life was going he would probably be away from her many times. This was there first separation and he wasn’t in a good mood.
His visit with Dumbledore weeks before had also left him unsettled. The mention of the headmaster‘s name made him feel grouchy. “I don’t know, Hermione, Dumbledore has his own reasons for not having Snape teach the class. I guess we’ll have to wait and see.”
They were joined by Ginny Weasley and Dean Thomas and stopped to have chilled pumpkin juice. Harry wasn’t listening to the conversation. The street had become very familiar to him in the six years he had come here to buy his Hogwarts school supplies.
He kept thinking of his conversation with Dumbledore as he watched the witches and wizards pass him in the street. His thoughts wandered. He wondered if he was going to treat Neville any differently now that he knew what he was; his ‘special position’, as Dumbledore had described it.
It made him think of his father, who had been a Guardian, too. How had his father been chosen? How had Neville been chosen? Harry wondered.
And then he saw her, Professor Trelawney, Hogwarts’ Divination teacher, walking down the street. He had never seen her outside of Hogwarts and rarely out of the aerie loft in the tower. Strange thoughts whirled in his head, the prophecy that she had made concerning he and Neville.
Harry could remember the words of the prophecy and the conversation they had about it as if Dumbledore stood before him and was repeating it. He could also remember what he said about the prophecy- that a form of it was saved in the Department of Mysteries and it had been relabeled after Voldemort tried to kill him. Neville had accidentally broken the glass bulb it was stored in during their fight in the Department of Mysteries.
Trelawney passed them and turned her face away. It was obvious she did not want to be noticed. Harry watched her. She had made two true predictions in all the years Dumbledore had known her. Once to him and once to Dumbledore. The rest were phony; even Dumbledore had said so.
It was all confusing to him and the answers to questions seemed to be just out of reach. It was when Trelawney passed into the street that led to Knockturn Alley and at the same moment Draco Malfoy, Crabbe and Goyle emerged from the same street that Harry knew what he had to do.
“The Ministry of Magic is still a mess. Dad says that they have a temporary replacement for Fudge but…,” Ron was talking to the small group.
“Ron!” Harry grabbed his arm.
“What Harry?” Ron asked glancing over.
“Come here a minute.” Harry stood and pulled him away from the others. “Listen Ron, do you still have that mirror that we used when I went to get Snape at the Malfoys?” Harry asked.
“Yeah, I think Hermione still has it.” Ron said.
“Listen Ron, I’m not going to make the Hogwarts Express and I may be gone for the first few days of classes. I’m going to get my mirror and I’ll use it to make contact with you. I’ll let you know where I am.” Harry was in a hurry.
“Where are you going?” Ron asked glancing over at Hermione.
Harry looked over at the small group. “You can’t tell her or anyone. At least not for awhile.”
Ron nodded.
“I’m going to Knockturn Alley,” Harry said. He still wore his clothes from the Romani camp and his face remained transformed, his scar turned into a tattoo, “and maybe beyond that.
“Your what?!” Ron paled. “What for?”
“Shush,“ Hermione’s eyes were on them, “There’s something I have to find out and, I can’t tell you what it’s about.” Harry looked at him with pleading eyes and then he smiled reassuringly at his friend. “I’m trusting you to come and rescue me if I get in trouble, mate. ” Harry said, “Look, I’ll be okay.”
“Oh great, Harry.” Ron rolled his eyes. “Thanks a lot. Alright, go then. I’ll get the mirror and tell Hermione…something.”
Harry nodded and hurried off to The Leaky Cauldron for his belongings. He told the innkeeper to have his trunk put on the Hogwarts Express and his friend would have it taken to the school. Harry hurried to his room, grabbed his sack and stuffed items into it. Hermione had lied to him in the letter he received on his birthday. She had given him a ring and told him how to use it. He put it on for the first time, a thick band of silver, engraved with ancient runes.
“What am I doing?” he said aloud. “I don’t even know what I’m looking for.”
“Can’t help you there lad,” The mirror said.
He covered himself in a cloak and slipped his broad brimmed fedora over his head, checked the sack and left the room.
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He vaguely remembered the narrow dark street as he made his way from the sunshine into the gloomy depths of Knockturn Alley. The shops were close together and dark, their windows dirty and grimy. The people on the street kept their heads down and stepped to the side, trying not to touch each other as they passed. Harry could smell the reek of mildew and centuries-old mold; refuse was piled in corners and maggot-infested overripe fruit thrown to the pavement.
Harry stepped cautiously down the street, not peering into shops or lifting his head. He drifted as if he was familiar with the area and was wandering. Several old witches passed, their clothes tattered and worn. Harry’s nose stung with the smell of dirt and stench, stale ale and whiskey. A pub opened up its’ gaping maw onto the street and several hooded men stood talking quietly to each other. Harry walked past while they stopped their conversation and studied him.
“Oy, you got a knut for an old man?” a beggar struggled up to Harry, his leg twisted cruelly into an s-shape. He was dragging it and supporting himself with a cane. He wasn’t much taller than a child, but twice as heavy.
“Geroff,” Harry growled, shoving the grimy, grabbing hand from his arm.
The man spat foul words at his back as he moved on. Several goblins passed him in a hurry, bumping his arm. They moved aside quickly when he turned. Harry kept his hand on his wand inside his cloak. He stopped once and wiped his hand against the brick coming away with black soot and dirt. He quickly wiped his hand over his face and neck. It was obvious to him that he stood out; he was too clean.
He made his way down the street and then stopped to lean against a wall and study the area from beneath his hat. It was getting later in the day and more nefarious types of individuals were crawling the street.
“Hello, love,” a witch stopped in front of him. “Ya interested in having a good time.”
“Mook! (leave), he spit at her in Romani.
“What’s that yer sayin’ in f’reign talk?” she snapped, “Whatchoo want to go actin’ like that fer.”
Harry raised hand as if to hex her.
“Pshaw!” she waved a hand and left, her black gown and cloak trailing through the dirt.
A voice whispered behind him in Romani, “Sar si to alav (what is your name)?”
Harry peered over his shoulder attempting to act nonchalant. Why would a respectful gypsy be down in these streets, he wondered. He saw the man, small and bent, his clothes black with caked dirt. He was bearded and had no teeth. “Who asks?”
The man slipped closer and stared down the dank street. “By me a drink Roma and I will tell you.” Harry smelled the fire whisky on his stale, stinking breath.
“I will buy you a drink if you will tell me where to find a room to sleep for the night,” Harry said.
“I can do that, Chav (boy)!” the man grinned and pawed Harry’s cloak.
“Don’t call me that, Laja! (shame on you). You speak Romani, but you are shameless.” Harry scolded and pulled the man’s hands from his clothes.
“Yes, yes,” the man nodded and bowed his head, “ I am akooshava (cursed).” He continued to scrape and bow.
“Very well,” Harry said. People were beginning to notice them. “But keep your hands off of me.” Harry followed the man further down the street to a point where it was so narrow and twisted that people could only walk single file. The man stopped before a door and opened it, hat in hand waiting for Harry to pass through. There was a grubby sign swinging overhead. The barely legible words painted on it said, ‘The Pig’s Head” .
Harry stepped out of the dim sunlight into almost pitch dark. He had his hand on his wand and stepped to one side as the Gypsy closed the door and followed him in. After his eyes adjusted to the light he could see the dim insides of a pub. The room was partly empty. People sat smoking and talking in rumbling whispers. Harry followed the man through a labyrinth of chairs to a bar where he sat at the counter.
“Fire whiskey for two,” The man said.
“Don’t dis man speak fer ‘imself?” asked the bartender.
“He speaks my tongue,” the old Romani said.
“Show me da coin and I’ll give ya da whiskey,” the bald headed man said. He wore an apron, stained gray with too many washings and not enough soap.
The Gypsy rubbed his thumb and index finger together. Harry dropped two coins on the scarred counter of the bar. He swiveled his head and studied the pub. A few of the ragged customers watched him with interest. He peered at them with sneer that he thought Snape would have been proud of; if he had been present.
A dirty glass was placed before him, half of the liquid sloshing out. Harry put his mouth to it and pretended as if he were sipping. The old Romani leaned in, “This is the place. Ye ken get a room here.” The black eyes glittered.
Yes, and get my throat cut, too, Harry thought, but he nodded in agreement. “Tell him I want a room and nobody is to disturb me.” The man went to translate, and Harry grabbed his arm. “Tell him they will not wake up in the morning if they do.”
The man nodded eagerly when Harry waved the bottle over his glass.
“He says he wants a room and he’s not to be bothered. He’s one of them Vardo gypsies, mates.“ His voice increased in pitch, “You best know that he can turn ya into a donkey’s ass with just a look.” The gypsy said it and then smiled at Harry as if Harry did not understand English. “Just look at the lad, me fine fellas, he’s got the looks of one of them rich gypsies. Maybe we should see if he has more gold in those pockets.” The man drank down his drink and the bartended moved off down into the gloom .
A chair scratched the wooden floor behind Harry and he slipped his wand beneath the man’s filthy robes. The move was cunning and stealthy. “Tell your mates, that if they touch me I will do more than turn them into a donkey’s ass,” Harry murmured in Romani.
The man’s face paled and he raised his hand. He smiled, “No harm done, then. We don’t abide by strangers down here much, but we do want to be friendly. No need for violence, Chav.” The noise of retreating steps told Harry that he could relax his grip on the smooth handle of his wand.
“I told you not to call me that,” Harry’s voice was steely.
“ ‘Course,” the little man spun the empty glass around in his cupped palms like a coin.
Harry filled it. “Show me to the room.”
They walked up a narrow stair and down a hallway that reminded Harry of the Black mansion before it had been cleaned. Dusty, black drapery covered the doors that lined the hall. Porgy, the bartender, pulled one aside, inserted a key and held the drape as Harry ducked under. He handed Harry a lantern that illuminated the small dark space.
“We have one meal a day served in the pub that comes with the room,” the bartender said gruffly and then left him.
The grubby little Gypsy stood in the hallway.
“What do you want?” Harry asked.
“Jus’ waitin’ to see if I can be of service,” the man said.
“You are nothing more than Gadjo,” Harry sneered. He watched the little man to see if the tough act was working. The man groveled again and nodded.
He stepped into the room, the overpowering smell of his sweat with him. Harry’s eyes watered and he stepped away and moved to the window. The glass was black and let in no light. Harry took out his wand and heard a gasp from behind him. “Don’t worry, I just want the stink out of this room,” Harry said and waved his wand, WINGARDIEM LEVIOSA. The window screeched upwards. It had not been opened, in perhaps, a century.
The little man behind him scuffled, stepping from one foot to another.
Harry studied the room in more light. It was worse than a rubbish bin. Azkaban is probably better than this, he thought. He was intentionally ignoring the gypsy but spoke to him, “What is your name?”
“I am Marcuso of the Lovorato tribe,” he said.
“No old gypsy, you have lost the Road,” Harry shook his head. “Go and bring me fresh water and bread.” Harry tossed him a knut.
The man left, shutting the door. Harry used his wand to clean the room of dust and dirt, SCOURGIFY.
What am I doing here? he wondered.
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The Hogwarts Express left the station at exactly ten o’clock. Hermione had gone to one end of the train and Ron to the other to patrol the corridors as part of their Prefect’s duties. They met halfway.
“Ron?” Hermione was frowning.
“What?” Ron was standing staring out the window. He glanced over at her and straightened. He didn’t like it when he saw that look on her face.
“I didn’t see Tommy on the train,” she referred to Harry’s alias name. “Was he down on that end?”
Ron sobered up and stood silently looking down on her.
“Ron?” she snapped. “Ron!”
“He’s not on the train ‘Mione,” he said.
“What do you mean he’s not on the train. We saw him only just yesterday.” Her eyebrows went up. “Alright. Where is he? You two were talking and then he left. He wasn’t at supper and you lied about it. He didn’t have a headache did he? Where is he?” She had her hands on the hips of her robes and she was frowning.
“He asked me not to say,” Ron said and turned to look out the window again.
“Ron Weasley!” Ron cringed. It sounded very much like his mother’s voice.
“Alright, but not out here. We could be overheard.” He opened the door to their compartment; it was empty.
[Chapter 9 has been rejected several times. I know it is not for spelling or grammatical errors but the admin. moderators have not told me the reason. If you wish to continue the story it is posted at other sites. www.harrypotterfanfiction.com for one. I don't wish to take readers away from this site....but really!] Natasha