History of the World Volume III Chapter 21 The Rule of Turpin – Self Control
…Control is an illusion. Chaos lurks around every corner, waiting to destroy the delicate balance that allows the illusion of control to exist. Chaos can come in many forms, both external and internal. You understand the chaos that is a wildfire burning your crop, your, home, and taking your life. But chaos can invade the very mind leaving insanity and waste behind. The skill in leading is actually in channelling chaos, both internally and externally...
A dark hooded figure stole down a deserted back alley, stepping over puddles of urine, piles of excrement, and rubbish. The stench in this particular Muggle town was enough to choke your average maggot, but the cloaked figure showed no sign that he noticed. Striding through the Muggle offal, the man pushed open a hidden side door and headed inside. A warm orange glow from a low-burning fire filled the room, but the wood smoke did nothing to mask the smell from the contaminated streets.
An elderly Muggle woman brandished a straw broom and waved it at her intruder. “Get ye’ out! Get ye’ out!” she screeched.
Extending his wand, the intruder flicked a stream of magic at the Muggle without speaking. Her shouts were silenced as she crumbled to the floor in a jumbled heap. The door behind him creaked open again, and the man spun with his wand still extended. A dirty-faced young man froze and lifted his hands submissively. “Are you lost sir?” the boy asked. “Or... Liquorice Drops?”
Lowering his wand, the man shoved back his hood, revealing his sallow complexion and tired eyes. Dumbledore always devised such asinine code words. “I’m reporting to children now?” Serverus sneered. “Are you ready to listen then child? I risk my life, every second you hover in the doorway uncertainly.” Since his transfer out of the education system, it was too dangerous for him to report directly anymore. He was being watched too closely.
“Yes, sir,” the boy answered. He shut the door and hastily crossed the room to the crumpled old woman. “Gran... did you hurt her? Why would you hurt her?”
“She was screeching,” Serverus said. “Now she’s sleeping. Are you listening?”
Still crouched next to his grandmother, the boy looked up, determination in his eyes. “I'm listening.”
But Serverus didn’t speak aloud. He extended his wand and began to write his report in the Muggle boy’s mind so that it would be inaccessible to the child, only readable by the man the message was addressed to.
I am currently employed by the Witch Oscasia, under the direct supervision of Mabel Turpin. It appears that the Turpin family has been assisting in the location and identification of Reapers for the emperor for some time. The following characteristics are used to identify potential Reapers. They are between the ages of eleven and nineteen; this characteristic is absolute. They are found with a geographic window defined by a Seer. The other characteristics are helpful but not completely determinate. They include: strong Muggle heritage and strength in magic.
The Turpins have been carefully aiding the acquisition of the Reapers for the Emperor. Children living outside of society are at serious risk for escape from the program. The Turpins calculate the statistical probability that any one individual will become a Reaper. They also calculate the probability that the next Reaper is enrolled in the school system and available for detection.
Mabel Turpin is the only witch working on this problem. I am her only staff. The Turpins are in trouble. The last two Reapers chosen were outliers - Mabel listed them as low risk to become Reapers. The Emperor has been slowly eliminating those of the Turpins who have disappointed him over the years, and their talent pool has become shallow. If Mabel is eliminated, the family will likely lose its position.
They are desperate.
With a practiced twist of his wand over the boy’s head, Serverus sealed the message. “Do you know what you’re supposed to do? Do you know where to go?”
“Yes sir,” the boy said. He held out a shaking hand for the money he was owed. Serverus dispensed two flat gold pieces onto the outstretched hand, and the boy tucked them away quickly. “Gran will be okay?”
Serverus didn’t even bother to answer. He pulled his hood up and slipped back outside into the night.
The Great Hall was filled with students attacking the evening meal. Their conversations filled the room with a cacophony of indecipherable sound. Harry took his plate of food around to the other first year students, but he didn’t sit at Ron and Hermione’s end of the table. He settled next to Draco. “The kitchen is spreading its wings lately. What was that green stuff sculpted into a Hippogriff?” Harry asked.
Draco looked up and shrugged dismissively. “I don’t eat food I can’t identify.” He cast a glance down the length of the table toward Harry’s usual crowd. “Still not talking to your girlfriend?”
“Hermione is not NOW, nor has she EVER been my girlfriend. We haven’t even spoken since the winter break.” Refusing to meet Draco’s sarcastic sneer, Harry focused on his dinner, cutting his roast beef into tiny pieces. Harry just barely refrained for raising his hand to massage the faded bruises from where Hermione had broken his nose.
“Would you like some advice?” Draco didn’t wait for Harry to accept or decline his offer. He leaned back and smiled knowingly. “You’re handling the situation all wrong. You apologized to her. If a girl broke my nose, there would be a reckoning. Three words and you could have her sent to Class II. You're letting her have all the power. It's ridiculous.”
“It isn’t a game, and it isn’t about power,” Harry said. “I got her in trouble, four weeks of detentions and a flag in our files. When I apologized, she broke my nose. Until I get an apology...I'm done.”
Draco just rolled his eyes. "Good enough, I suppose, but I don't see why you don't just file a report and get her declassified. At least have enough dignity not to apologize to her again."
Eating quietly, Harry ignored Draco's comment. It was pointless to try and explain it to him. He could never understand why Hermione would be so angry, but Harry had an inkling. She wasn’t a witch so much as a Muggle girl with magic. She didn’t like wizards, and she didn’t revel in the status she’d gained. She was in the group home for more that a month before she started actually trying to learn the lessons they were teaching. When she decided to learn, she became single-minded about it. Harry didn’t understand what changed the rules for Hermione and made school important. But when Isobel started screaming this Christmas, she hindered Hermione in her single-minded educational pursuits. Then when Harry tried to apologize he stumbled onto a button that turned things ugly. He didn't think Hermione meant to hurt him, but she was going to have to apologize before they could move forward.
Almost against his will, Harry gazed down at Hermione, daring her to look up and acknowledge him, but the only one who looked up was Ron, a strained smile hovering on his face. “You’re right about one thing though, Draco,” Harry said. “I’m through begging for forgiveness. It isn’t getting me anywhere. The ball's in her court.”
Ron exhaled dramatically and stared at Hermione. She didn’t look up from her meal, casually taking small bites of her dinner and chewing slowly. “You are a bloody mystery,” Ron whispered. “A flag in your file isn’t that big a deal. You can ask my brother George if you don’t believe me. I would like my two favourite friends to stop avoiding each other some time this term.”
Hermione folded her napkin and set in on the table before she looked up. “It's not a mystery. I'm afraid of what I'll do if I try to talk to him.” Hermione curled her hands into fists, the only outward sign she allowed of her internal turmoil. Daily she grappled with a rage that just seemed to get stronger and meaner as she grew older. It had been a part of her so long that she didn't even remember when it was born. It wasn't at the group home she was certain, but that place had refined it. She remembered her first days walking those grey halls. She fought the system for weeks, ignoring her teachers, ignoring the other students. She spent every moment looking for a way to escape - even managed it a few times. But they always brought her back.
Then one day, Philip -- an ogre of a boy with hairy knuckles -- had been picking on a little girl, Isobel. Hermione hardly thought about it at the time. She stepped in and broke his nose. Silencing him made her feel better. Harry had been an unexpected complication. He was thankful and determined to return the favour. She gave him a black eye for his trouble and more than a few nosebleeds over the course of a month. But if he hadn't braved her fists of doom, she might not have learned to read. She might never have discovered her idols, men and women like Franklin Jose, Alice Brice, and Melinda Potter. "I can't get declassified. I won't," Hermione said. "I just get so angry. It's like something inside me, something that I can't control. I'm afraid if I talk to Harry. If I try to apologize, I'll lose it. When he apologized, I broke his nose Ron. I saw red, and started swinging."
It was so ludicrous that Ron might have laughed, except that Hermione wasn't kidding. He'd seen her rage on display more than once. "There has to be a way for you to let it out, besides pummelling people."
Hermione laughed mirthlessly and leaned closer. "I'm a terrible friend," she whispered. "I used to beat him up all the time back at the group home. It was how I learned to tolerate him. I don't want to be angry anymore, Ron. I don't want him to be angry with me, but I don't know how to let this go."
It was an insubstantial slip of parchment, with scarcely two dozen words written across it. Albus let it rest on the centre of his desk, staring back at him. He’d been expecting this letter since Fred Weasley was taken.
Director Dumbledore,
Four instructors have submitted written requests that George Weasley be declassified. There isn’t anything I can do, except leave the matter in your hands. I will proceed as you deem best.
Sincerely,
Headmistress McGonagall
Lifting the letter, Albus glanced down at it without reading. He offered it to the quiet, drawn young man sitting across the desk from him. George accepted the letter without reading it either. “Why am I here, sir?” George asked. “A student being sent to Class II isn’t that uncommon. We’ve never even met. Why do you care?”
“I care about all the students in every class, but you especially. I failed you, Mr. Weasley. Your declassification is my fault,” Albus said. He removed his half-moon spectacles and massaged the bridge of his nose tiredly. "You may think I'm being dramatic or senile, many would agree with you, but I am in fact, only being honest."
Rummaging on his desk, Albus produced a bowl of multicoloured sweets in different shapes. George stared at the bowl as though it might contain a pair of dirty socks and lifted his eyes back to Albus's face.
"Well then," Albus said. "Your brother was taken into specialized service to the Emperor, and your performance at school has dropped off precipitously since. I have to assume the events are closely linked." Albus took one of the sweets from his bowl and chewed it for several moments, studying George, waiting for any hint of a response from him.
“When I was a young man, younger than you, my family spent three years abroad. While my mother studied Gold-Tipped Peruvian Dragons, my brother and I studied the wild jungles of South America. It was a great adventure for us. Aberforth, my elder brother, was quite precocious, always inventing spells and testing many of them on me. He enjoyed a good joke. Aberforth invented a hex at the age of fourteen that could make a creature grow hairy purple boils in a perfect likeness of a mermaid. Brilliant spell work but the goat he tested it on belonged to a prominent Inca priestess. Got himself in some trouble over that one."
George let the old man ramble, but he stopped listening. This interview wasn't because anyone cared. This was an exit interview, a chance to pick his brain, figure out what went wrong, and try to send him on to success in Class II. Well, he had no intention of doing well in Class II. If he continued to drop all the way to Class IV, and the teachers could find no use for him, they'd have to let him out of the school system. He would be free to pursue important things like his brother and possibly find a place for himself in the rebellion.
“He was sixteen when they took him. A third tier witch named Oscasia walked into our home with an ugly black stone. She made me and my brother touch the stone. It turned red at Aberforth's touch, and that was that."
At the mention of Oscasia, George began listening again. Oscasia? Did Dumbledore know what happened to his brother?
"I didn't see Aberforth for some time after that. Special training they said. They didn't train my brother, Mr. Weasley. They killed him. But worse they desecrated his body afterwards. They filled him with a demon, and called him a Reaper." Albus met and held George's gaze without flinching. "The same thing was done to your brother, though I swore to someday put a stop to it.
"I failed you, at least as terribly as I failed your brother."
Unconscious of the raw pain he projected, George shook his head. "I believe you, sir. Your brother was taken and made into this thing, a Reaper, but they didn't kill Fred. He is alive, and I intend to save him."
"Because a man's body walks and talks, eats and breathes, does not make him alive. I tried to save my brother as well, but there wasn’t anything to save," Albus said. He rose and paced away from George. "You will never understand how much I empathize with you, or how sorry I am for what has happened."
George wished he could banish the pity in Dumbledore's eyes. He didn't need the man's pity. He needed him to understand and to help. He'd learned more about what was done to his brother in the last few minutes than anyone had shared in months. But Albus Dumbledore was labouring under a misconception. Reapers did not inhabit corpses. They inhabited the living. "You're wrong. I know my brother's alive. I know it with every breath I take. If I believed he was dead, I’d have to believe he was in Hell, because Fred is in pain, terrible unending agony. We’re twins, conjoined at the heart. I know he's alive. I feel it.”
"Reapers inhabit the dead bodies of their hosts. There wasn't any trace of my brother's soul in that body," Albus said. "If there had been any chance..."...I wouldn't have been able to kill him. Dumbledore turned, and he wanted to argue. But he couldn’t deny the truth burning at him out of George's eyes. If Fred Weasley wasn’t dead, if hosts of Reapers didn’t die...Albus stumbled over to his desk and sank weak-kneed into his seat. He killed his brother. But more importantly the hosts of Reapers lived on... in unending agony. Albus didn't think George was exaggerating the feedback he felt from his brother, and he didn't harbour any illusions that Aberforth would have had an easier time of it. His brother suffered for a decade until Albus finally ended his pain and killed him. “Forgive me,” Albus murmured, "for taking so long."
"We have to save Fred," George said. "Can you help me?"
"The only way that I know to free you brother is the killing curse," Albus said quietly. "It is the curse I used to free Aberforth, though at the time I thought he was already gone."
"Useless. Everyone is useless," George hissed.
“I can help you. We can dull the pain,” Albus said. "This connection to your brother is harming you now."
“I'm not the one who needs help. I don’t need you to block out my brother. That connection is the only proof I have that he's alive. It's a comforting pain,” George said. “Unless you can expedite my exit from the school system, you have nothing to offer me.”
“So you can join the rebellion and save your brother?” Albus asked quietly. “Actually, you might be surprised by how much help I can be. Have you ever considered an apprenticeship, Mr. Weasley? I know a master wizard by the name of Moody who is looking for a dedicated young man with the right ideals.”
Her hair tied into a burnished, lopsided knot, Lily ran an ink-smudged finger down a long scroll of parchment. She frowned at the list and absently scratched her nose with her inky finger leaving a blue smudge on her pale skin.
For his part, Remus was trying to internalize the words in front of him, but he couldn’t help staring at his co-worker a bit. She was a dishevelled, scholarly goddess. At moments like this, he could almost forget reality. He could almost forget that this was James' wife and pretend that they were back in school, class partners and the closest of friends. The childhood crush was long dead, of course. It was really just a fantasy that plagued him now; an inkling of a childhood stirring that wasn't even real anymore. Remus refocused on his parchment, determined to get some work done. He needed to finish this job and head back to where life made sense. It was too much of a cruel tease, living and working with Lily.
“Supervisors, schedulers, people involved in the children’s education, carers,” Lily read. “There are a lot of people that Oscasia could try to subvert in the rebellion to kidnap children. We’re going to have an impressive list of people to interview. Assuming she's gearing up to start her abductions, she must have approached some of these people. They couldn't have all been willing to betray the rebellion. I wonder, why hasn't anyone said anything?”
Remus shrugged and flipped his parchment. “She's been at this a long time, Lily. We may be looking at this from the wrong angle. Anyway, we will have an impressive list. But I won’t be doing the questioning. Once the list is finished list, I’m done. I have another job lined up and waiting.”
Sighing, Lily frowned. “You can’t just disappear again though, Remus. You should stay with the rebellion; join us for real. I’m sure we’d get to work together frequently. I promise to keep your clothes mended. James and Sirius wouldn’t know what to do. They’d be so happy to have you back in the thick of things with them.”
“I can’t,” Remus said. He couldn't really articulate the vaguely unsettling feelings that Lily awoke in him, but fortunately there were other persuasive arguments for his departure. “I have obligations to the other werewolves too. They let me roam at my own risk, but I’ve already sworn my allegiance to them. I won’t swear again, not to your rebellion or anyone."
A sprinkling of stars cast the only light over the hills. Moving through the heavily shadowed landscape was slow going, but Hermione trekked through the dew-covered grass easily. She simply followed the trail Ron cut in front of her, trusting him to find any holes or creatures in their path. He stopped suddenly and she almost ploughed right into him. Snorting, she blew a long plume of foggy breath into his neck. "It's cold. What is it we're doing out here? I'm not taking another step until you tell me."
"Hold on a half a second. It's right around here." Ron glanced over his shoulder and smiled nervously. The idea of Hermione using Harry to pummel her rage out had started him thinking. Did she have to pummel Harry to get her fix? "There it is." Ron headed a couple of steps to the right and pointed to a scrubby soft-looking tree. "It's a Yarrow Berry tree."
"You dragged me out here to admire a tree?" Hermione asked. "Are you feverish?"
"You're not supposed to admire the tree. You're supposed to hit it," Ron said point blankly. “Pound the sap out of the thing.”
“You want me to beat up a tree?” Hermione feigned ignorance, but she thought she knew what Ron was suggesting. He thought she could pour her rage out into the activity. He thought rage was that easily siphoned away. She saw Ron gearing up to explain, but she couldn’t hear it. “Ron, I know what you mean. Could you leave me alone for a bit. I need to think.” It was obvious that he had more to say, but her dark expression brooked no argument.
Hermione stood in front of the tree, a homely stunted-looking thing, completely bare of leaves or any sign of life. She listened to Ron’s footfalls until they were swallowed by the night. He was a kind person, like Harry. He wanted to help her, to know her...to be her friend. But he was a wizard like the rest. “Hello tree,” Hermione whispered. “Don’t be afraid. I’m not going to hurt you.” She reached out and stroked the rubbery bark. “I think I’m crazy...sometimes I know I am.” Hermione closed her eyes and tried to imagine when the anger first broke free in her. When did it start? When she tried to grope through the fog of her memories, it seemed the rage had always been there, a lurking, burning underscore to her life.
"Hermione? Is that you?"
She glanced over her shoulder, but it wasn't Ron, come back to check on her. It was the round-faced ecology nerd who thought her rage scared the magical creatures. Reluctantly, Hermione had to admit he might have been right. "Yes, Neville."
"I didn't mean to interrupt you if you're communing with the Yarrow Berry tree. I mean, it is a very enlightening experience, and I'm sure it would help you, but it works better if you touch it." Neville blushed scarlet and took a step back. "I just assumed that Ron told you about it after the conversation we had. Look, I just came down to gather a few dandelion heads for Potions tomorrow. Don't let me bother you."
Her fists curled tight at her sides, Hermione watched him go. She fought the urge to find Ron Weasley and pound him for setting her up, for talking about her with other students, and planning some kind of therapeutic tree-punching event. The cold wind blowing over her seemed to cool her brain as well as her limbs, and she stood silently instead. She was able to turn back to the tree.
And then she did what Ron told her to.
Hermione hit the tree. Her bare knuckles stung but she hardly noticed. She hit it again and again, pummelling it with the strength of her insatiable rage. She pounded at the tree until blood and sap ran together over her knuckles and down her arms. She punched until she couldn't breathe.
Winded and unable to stop the tears that had somehow begun to leak down her chapped cheeks, Hermione turned her back to the tree and slid down it's trunk, claiming a seat on the cold frozen earth.
"Shhhh..." Hermione looked up, half-convinced that the voice she heard was the wind in the trees, rushing over its winter-barren branches. "Shhhh…don't cry."
Then the winter was gone.
Hermione was insubstantial. She was filled with light and floating, like a ship at sea, only she was skimming through the air lazily. Below her a pair of giggling little girls played on the streets of a Muggle township. She knew those girls, Stephanie and...the other girl with the lopsided, bushy pigtails... it was her. They were playing a game. The older girl, Stephanie, held a spring-mud-ball, waiting for her big brother to come out of the feed store. When the door opened, she threw her missile but it wasn't her brother she hit. Stephanie pushed Hermione behind her a moment before the mud-splattered wizard cast a curse.
The tiny girl, Hermione, froze, unable to move under the wizard's gaze, but he didn't bother casting again. He strolled away after Scourgifying the mud away. A tiny white rat sat where Stephanie had been, and Hermione scooped her up. She stared after the wizard, too terrified to shout her angry protestations. She cuddled her cousin to her breast and waited for Stephanie's brother to really exit the feed store, impotent to do anything but cry.
The wind that buoyed the insubstantial Hermione swirled sharply and pulled her forward, to another place, another time, and another season.
The air was thick and heavy with heat. A family sat quietly around their campfire whilst dinner cooked. They were unwilling to draw too close to the blaze but unable to pull far away either. There were creatures in the woods who were just intimidated enough to avoid a fire and little else.
The woman had long curly brown hair. She was the mother...Hermione's mother. Tall and frail, she had a vague look about her, as though she wasn't really aware of her surroundings. Every few seconds she would cough into her hand. Sometimes the cough was quickly extinguished and sometimes it seemed to go on forever until blood had splattered the ground and her mother's face turned a deathly grey.
"She's dying!" the insubstantial Hermione shouted to the unhearing family. "You're going to let her die!" The young girl and her father paid no heed to the shouted warning, but Hermione thought her mother looked up and saw her. She thought she smiled with her bloodstained lips.
"Shhhh. Don't cry," her mother whispered. "You have to wake up. It's too cold to stay longer, but come see me again. Come again. Wake up!"
Hermione jerked back into consciousness, no longer insubstantial or flying, she was just very cold. Her hands were throbbing ice cubes. When she looked down, they were a mess, bloodstained and bluish. Clumsily, Hermione rose and headed for the school. The wind gusted again, pushing past her and through the trees. "Shhh…" The Yarrow Berry tree whispered one last time, but Hermione didn't look back.
Draped across his bed and dressed for morning classes, Harry stared at the ceiling waiting for Draco to finish his hair. "I'm starving while you perfect that gel-masterpiece."
Meeting Harry's eye in the mirror, Draco smirked. "You can always head down without me and sit with your girlfriend."
"I'm too hungry to correct you this morning," Harry grumbled. "Are you almost finished?"
"You can't rush perfection, Green." He cocked his head to the side and stared contemplatively at Harry's hair. "Have you ever considered doing something with that mop you call hair?"
"Are you volunteering to be my personal stylist, now?" Harry snorted. He rolled off the bed and joined Draco by the mirror. He used his hand to ruffle his hair into more dramatic disarray. "It can't be tamed by any force know to wizarding kind. Many have tried; the hair always wins."
"Well, you make me look better, so why fight it?" Draco said. They headed out into the halls but someone was waiting for them, well for Harry anyway. The girlfriend, Hermione, was standing there rigid and nervous. Draco noticed light bandages on her hands, and wondered who she'd been pounding today. Hopefully it was someone with enough sense to report her and get the unstable Muggle-brained girl out of Class I. Maybe this was her tearful farewell and apology rolled into one?
"I'm sorry, Harry," Hermione said. She didn't linger for more than a moment after saying the words, and Harry didn't really have time to digest the apology, much less respond.
Draco felt an irrational stab of possessiveness hit him. Hermione might have finally apologized, but did she think Green was going to just fall back in line. Some time over the last few weeks, Draco had come to consider Harry his friend as well as his class partner. It wasn't something he had expected or thought he needed, but he didn't want to lose that comradeship now that he had it.
They continued to breakfast in silence, Harry obviously lost in thought. On their way to the line Harry broke away and headed to where Hermione was sitting with Ron. Draco looked forward, refusing to watch the tearful reunion. It wasn't like it really mattered. He had plenty of friends. He glanced at the first years' table where the established wizarding children sat, where Lisa Turpin held court. He tried to decide which of them was really his friend.
Draco took a seat near Lisa. He greeted her with a cool smirk and began dissecting his sausage. A moment later, Harry slid into the seat next to him and stole a piece of toast off his plate.
"They ran out," Harry said pointedly.
Draco was at a loss for words for at least ten seconds, then he frowned disapprovingly. "Don't make me hex you, Green."
Author's Note:
Yes, it has been three weeks since I updated. The horrible affliction known as writer's block visited me. I blame Draco and Harry. They were never supposed to become friends. If you look at my outline that is supposed to be telling me what to write this chapter, Draco should be sabotaging Harry's broom before their first flying lesson. Instead they're consulting each other on hairstyling points. *sigh* I'd have made them play within the outline, but I like this odd path they've taken and I refuse to deter them in their happier pursuits.
Magical Maeve and her potato gun are greatly responsible for keeping this fic alive and flowing, a million thanks are owed her.