AN : This chapter was again betaed by the wonderful rambkowalczyk. She always helps a lot!
And thanks for your lovely reviews!
Chapter 14 : The Diary
Hermione closed the door to her bedroom behind her. After a very long and confusing day of travel, filled with both trouble and insight, she still felt alert and tense. Being alone in her bedroom her made her calm down, as did the presence of known furniture, known smell, known books.
The events of the day made her feel as if something had suddenly fundamentally changed in her life. Now she wasn’t just Hermione anymore, a witch, a talented student and Harry Potter’s friend, but she was also a person with her own fate, something that didn’t have anything to do with Harry. Today, she had met Ollivander, and he had revealed to her the secret of her wand : that she wasn’t its first owner. The first owner had been an ancestor of Ollivander, a wand-maker as well, and Ollivander had indicated that this could mean that she was meant to be a wand-maker, too. He had given her the old diary of this man, but he had also given her something else: a possible future she would never have thought of for herself. A gift she hadn’t known she possessed.
She empathised with Harry understanding what it’s like to be destined for something not of her choosing. Not entirely comfortable but exciting.
She dropped her backpack on the bed, retrieved a small satchel of galleons and put them away with her other money. Then she took out the midnight-blue diary, which was wrapped in a faded flannel cloth.
She gently folded the dusty cloth and laid it aside. The diary lay cool and heavy in her hands, the silk as smooth as living skin. She stroked the cover as if it contained sacred advice. Then she opened it. Hermione had half expected to see the empty pages of blank white paper à la Tom Riddle’s enchanted diary, and was relieved to discover pages and pages of writing.
The handwriting was smooth and elegant, with the elaborate style of long lost ages, making the book lover sigh involuntarily. It was also very narrow, as if written with a small and fine quill. There was no name or address inside, so when she read the first entry, she didn’t even know the name of the writer. This is the owner of my wand, she thought, trying to see whether the thought would make her feel any different. It didn’t.
It is the second of May, in the year of 1767 and I have returned from France bringing with me this diary. “ a gift from Uncle Isaac, it was given to me while I stayed at the lovely Academie de Beauxbatons. The Muggle population is suffering in dire conditions while I’m writing this, far worse than I had hitherto imagined. We were forced to move back to this our home country by the intervening plague ...
Hermione flipped a few pages forward, until May, the 23rd.
The course of events has kept me from continuing my regular entries. Last week, an owle from the ministry summoned me there, on behalf of a Department hitherto unknown to me. I asked my Uncle and my sister Marian about the ordeal and was advised to be cautious. The meeting took place in an office deep under the earthe, which made me feel like a gnome or a dwarf entering a mine!
The wonders didn’t stop though. The wizard to whose office I was brought to was indeed the great sorcerer Lord Yardley. I had last heard of him as being missing in India; great was my surprise to see him living and thriving underneath central London!
“Master Bane “ or may I call you Master Yorick? “ welcome to the Department of Mysteries,” the sorcerer said by way of greeting. I was flustered by this great man wanting to call me by my given name and of course agreed immediately.
So his name was Yorick Bane, Hermione mused. Not an Ollivander. And he had something to do with the Department of Mysteries! This was a very lucky coincidence, as she had been desperately searching for a book on this special department. Excitedly she read on. On the following pages, Yorick Bane accounted of his strange meeting with the sorcerer Lord Yardley, whom Hermione had never heard of before. She would look up his name as soon as possible. She also learned that Bane was obviously rather young; she got the impression that the man had only just left Hogwarts, that his parents seemed to be dead and that he was living with his older sister Marian at his Uncle Isaac’s.
Lord Yardley made a thrilling proposition to the young wizard: to work at the Department of Mysteries, and to be initiated into the deepest secrets of Magic. He told at length “ and Yorick repeated it at length “ how Yorick was talented and of good blood. Hermione got the impression that this Lord Yardley was a rather fanatic pureblood. Then he made some enigmatic indications about the Department, and finally asked Yorick to become an apprentice.
Yorick got a fortnight’s time to decide and returned to his uncle’s home.
I was excited to tell the news to my dear Uncle and sister “ but when I came home, they were already in great commotion. My request about the reasons was met with this reply:
“I’m going to marry!”
Yes, sweet Marion is going to marry. I was most surprised: the fiancé is the son of Ollivander, the wand-maker. This was most curious, and I was wondering how my sister got to know the man, that I forgot to tell about my own news.
The next fifteen pages were filled with Yorick’s account of his sister and the Ollivander son, of the upcoming marriage and more such trivial things. Hermione began to wonder how Yorick Bane would ever become a wand maker: he sounded rather positive about going to the Department, and the Ollivander’s obviously had a son to inherit the business. Also, Yorick expressed no interest at all in the trade; in fact he described it as:
Dull and low by all observations, not worthy of a fully educated wizard.
Finally, when the journal had almost reached July, 1767, there was another entry about the Department. Yorick agreed to the invitation and was initiated as an Unspeakable.
Unspeakable is what I will call myself from now on, unspeakable because I can not tell any man about my business. I cannot tell my sister or my Uncle. I cannot even tell my best friends. From this day on I am not allowed to talk about what I will see and witness, and I will carry those unspeakable secrets with me into my grave.
He didn’t even write what happened. Hermione was frustrated. He only gave hints, expressed his fascination and his fear. Because whatever it was Yorick Bane learned in the ministry, it seemed to frighten him. But he greatly admired his mentor, Lord Yardley, and still seemed to be very proud of himself. Sometimes he reminded Hermione of Percy Weasley, so eager he was to please his superiors.
+++
After Lupin had left that afternoon, Harry felt energetic for the first time since Sirius’ death. It was the feeling that something had given way, like a dam that breaks. The flood was harsh and powerful, but it also kept him alive.
He unpacked his clothes and then took his broom. A few minutes later, he knocked at the door to McGonagall’s office.
“Just a minute,” he heard her call from inside. Waiting, he stroked the polished wood of the broomstick, the beautiful patterns and the golden badge. So many of his happiest memories were tied to this broom. And now so much sadness, too, because whenever he looked at the firebolt, he thought of Sirius. Then the door was opened and McGonagall glanced down at him.
“Potter. Let me guess, it’s about Quidditch. If you’re worrying about that ugly toad’s ban, forget it,” she informed him with a cool voice but a mischievous glint in her eyes. Harry simply beamed at her.
“May I go out and practise, then?”
“I think that should be alright “ but no flying away from the castle, Mr. Potter.”
“Yes, Professor!” Harry called, and was already bolting down the stairs. She smiled after him.
“He’ll make it,” she whispered.
+++
“Just a minute Mom!”
Hermione flicked over the page, chewing at her lips. She was so close; she just had to read on...
“Darling? Are you coming?”
“I’m reading something important! Can I just eat later?”
Silence came from the hall, and Hermione looked down at the page again, finding the place where she had left off. The neat handwriting from the beginning of the journal had changed, now it was jittery, like Yorick Bane had been nervous, or writing in a hurry.
I’m writing of secrets that no human mind shall perceive, but I cannot hold them inside me anymore. I have been permitted in the innermost sanctuary of the Ministry, the Department of Mysteries. I have sworn a wizard oath not to give away anything I shall learn here ... but how would I know how those secrets, unknown to me, would tear at my soul. My heart cries out for someone I could talk to in order to relieve this burden, but I have only these pages...
Why do we never ask what happens to those unlucky, sinful individuals whom we judge to die? How are they executed? Wizards do not burn, are not drowned, and aren’t poisoned or strangled as easily as Muggles. I reckoned it would be decapitation.
Upon my studying days, I once witnessed a judgement of the Wizengamot. The fellow, a slayer of Muggles and Wizards alike, was deemed to death, with the words that go like this: And thy soul shall not find rest in our realms, never shall slayer and slain be reunited, a veil of eternity shall part them. But I did not know then, what such punishment entailed and that the Veil was not a metaphor.
Hermione shivered. The Veil. She had wanted to read something about the veil, and now she was obviously very close to doing so. But what was the secret of the veil? What was its use, why was it positioned in that theatre-like room?
A day hence the estimated Lord Yardley told me that our usual routine “ as you remember we were working in the Room of Time “ would be disturbed by a “veiling”. I demanded an explanation but he simply smiled one of those smiles he gives me whenever he introduces me to something new and exciting.
I was led into a room with rows of stone benches, like the Amphitheatres we saw in France and Italy. Other members of the Department, as well as the Judges of the Wizengamot were seated. In the centre stood a dais with an arch, and a veil hung from it. It was moving in a strange breeze.
I sat patiently, waiting for whatever spectacle to take place, when a couple of hooded men brought in a screaming, struggling man. He wore a blindfold, and was unable to see the veil he was led towards, but I have never seen anybody so frightened. I was in great trouble and asked my neighbour, Lord Yardley:
“Who is that fellow? What has he done?”
“Silas Vince. He has violated the law of wizard secrecy and caused a witch hunt in Norfolk. A Muggle was hung and two cats were burnt.”
The struggling wizard was led to the dais and his blindfold was removed. He stared at the veil in abject horror, pleading for mercy “ but one of the executioners put a muting charm on him. Then he was pushed through the veil “ and his body vanished from the spot.
Hermione frowned. This person, Silas Vince, had made a mistake and a Muggle had died. Not to talk of the two cats. But that wasn’t a reason for death penalty! Not for the first time she disagreed strongly with wizarding law. She read on.
I was quite shaken by this display, and it took me a while to recover, but then I asked Lord Yardley the pressing question: “What is behind the veil?”
“Behind the veil is hell, Bane. Eternal punishment. Penance for your sins. Behind the veil is hell, where the souls of the damned suffer without hope or end.”
Oh! How can we do that? How can we pass the judgement only higher powers may pass? Eternity is not for humankind to touch. But I have sworn allegiance to the ministry. I am an unspeakable and cannot back out of this contract...
Hermione couldn’t continue reading. The letter became blurry before her eyes and her chest was tight and hurting. Tears ran down her cheeks and she sobbed.
+++
Harry stayed in the air until he had to return for supper. He completely drowned his mind in the blue sky and the sun and the air, until he was a bird, until he was the sky itself. When he came down to the Great Hall after a quick shower, his head felt as if it had been wiped clean and was now ready to refill.
Around the teacher’s table, a smaller number of people sat. Dumbledore and McGonagall were both in a brighter mood than they had been in for a while now. Short Professor Flitwick sat with them, next to the enormous Hagrid who beamed over at Harry. On the other end sat Nurse Pomfrey and Trelawney, wrapped in a ridiculous number of paisley shawls. Professor Snape’s chair was curiously empty, as if he was expected but hadn’t yet arrived. Also empty was the part of the table, where Hooch, Sinistra, and the teachers for Ancient Runes and Muggle studies usually sat. They probably had left for a holiday or to visit their families. Harry was offered the vacant chair of the teacher of Defence against the Dark Arts. A little flustered, he sat down. Although he had already dined at the teacher’s table during the Triwizard Tournament, it still felt strange.
“Can we Gryffindors be optimistic about the next Quidditch season, Mr. Potter?” McGonagall asked in a not quite so serious voice.
“I hope so,” Dumbledore added with a mock smile of concern, “as Minerva has just informed me that you’ll be team captain next year.”
All teachers turned around, watching Harry, who in turn gawked at the headmaster and deputy headmistress. He had tried to forget Quidditch since the ban, and since the fight in the Ministry he hadn’t thought about it at all. Now it dawned on him that he had actually been quite stupid not to do so. That the ban would be undone was quite logical now that Umbridge was gone. And since he wasn’t a prefect, after all ...
“Well, Mr Potter?”
“I “ that- thank you Professors!” Harry could have hugged McGonagall right now. Quidditch captain was far better than being a prefect or Head Boy . It would be a hell of stress to train the new team, but he would just love it. He would play again, this time with both Ron and Ginny on his team. And he had also the strong feeling that this would have made Sirius and his father much prouder than if he became Head Boy. He was too happy to eat or talk for a while.
“Great for ye’, Harry,” Hagrid grinned into his black beard.
“Of course I always saw the potential, Potter,” Trelawney eagerly added. “Written in the stars it is, great fame.” McGonagall threw her a pitiful look over her spectacles.
“So who’ll be on your new team?” Flitwick asked. Harry tried to organise his thoughts.
“Well ... Katie and Ron, Ginny Weasley will try out as Chaser ... we’ll have to replace Fred and George and Alicia. A lot of try-outs. I think the Creeveys might make good Beaters ...”
Harry drifted off and finally dug into his food. While eating potatoes, he listened to Flitwick and McGonagall quietly discussing OWL and NEWT grades.
“When will we know how many OWLs we get?” Harry asked.
“Owls notifying the students will be sent out this week. You can get yours at my office on Saturday,” the head of Gryffindor house replied. “You did well, especially considering the circumstances.”
Harry didn’t know what to say and looked down at his plate. The first exhilaration about becoming Quidditch captain had subsided, and now he thought about his OWLs. How good was good, considering the circumstances? He had done horribly in Divination and not well enough in Potions, he had only filled out a third of his star charts in Astronomy and he had completely flunked History of Magic. Now, there weren’t any parents with expectations to worry about, but what about his plans to become an Auror? Suddenly Harry found that he didn’t feel very enthusiastic about it. When he had planned his career, his future had seemed intangible, like an adventurous but thoroughly fantastic story you imagine...
Probably he shouldn’t worry about that any more. His future was not to become an Auror. His future was to kill Voldemort or be killed. With a dazed feeling in his head, Harry looked up, stared into the distance and then at Dumbledore, who was chatting amiably with Flitwick.
To kill Voldemort or be killed...
Didn’t he know before the prophecy that Voldemort was his sworn enemy? Didn’t he know before that Voldemort wanted desperately to kill him? So why did this stupid prophecy change it all so much?
Everything appeared to be at a distance from him, the sounds muted by a thick mist. Dying ... he had thought so much about death since Sirius had died, but not once about his own death. Did he really believe in meeting his parents again, somewhere behind the veil or above the clouds? He remembered the distant voices behind the veil, the beckoning, sweet voices ... but did he really want to follow their call? What about his friends, what about growing up? Suddenly a terrible fear seized him, a fear of death he hadn’t known he possessed, as if there was nothing worse than death, nothing at all. His mind felt as if it was possessed by the thought. He shivered.
No, he didn’t want to die. He wanted to live, to fly, to do magic, and to be with Ron and Hermione. He wanted to do his NEWTs, to leave the Dursleys, and to have his own flat. He wanted to avenge his parents and Sirius. He wanted so much ... so much which death couldn’t offer.
What did Voldemort want?
Power.
How could the hunger for power keep you alive? How could it sustain a wishing being, how could it make you want to go on? Harry couldn’t imagine that. Wasn’t it natural that he should win? Because of the two of them, only he really wanted to live. Voldemort didn’t want to die “ but he wasn’t interested in life either.
But what could he do? He couldn’t do magic like Voldemort could. He couldn’t fight, couldn’t kill, and couldn’t even use the Unforgivable Curses. He didn’t know what Voldemort knew; he was stuck in the school, while Voldemort could go everywhere and gain even more powers. Voldemort had an army of cruel wizards and witches, and what did Harry have ? A couple of untrained kids, brave but powerless.
He had a power the Dark Lord knows not. What was that? Love? Well, if Voldemort was going to be defeated by the power of love ... Harry grimaced.
Suddenly he realised the piercing look of Dumbledore’s eyes on him. The wizened wizard smiled over the table at Harry.
“He will be,” he said enigmatically to Harry, and strangely no one seemed to hear him but Harry.
“But ... I can’t just sit around and wait for it,” Harry answered. Time seemed to have stopped around them.
“Probably not. But I don’t think that’s a big problem now, is it? I have seen that you have the initiative and heart to learn what it is you need to do. Maybe you would like a more experienced teacher?” Dumbledore winked at him.
“I do “ very much, I think, Professor.” Harry rarely asked his teachers for anything, but this was an offer he couldn’t decline. Maybe he would disappoint Dumbledore. But he had to try. He had learned that last year, when he had failed to learn the vital lesson Snape tried to teach him. Admittedly, Snape didn’t try very hard. But in the end, it was Harry’s fault.
“Well, how about we meet after dinner? I’ll have to leave for a meeting in Copenhagen around midnight, but before that, why not take the time we’ve got?” Dumbledore suggested lightly.
“Yes, Professor,” Harry quickly said. “Thank you,” he added. Dumbledore’s cheerful expression changed, but only a fraction.
“You don’t have to thank me, Harry,” he answered gently. “I’m offering this too late and what I offer may not be of great value. But I don’t want to make the same mistake twice....”