Chapter Twenty-Seven
Percy had long, unkempt dark hair. His eyes had taken on a hard edge. They flashed as Snape’s did, when he peaked in his loathsomeness. “Why did you kill me, Harry? All I ever did was love you.” His voice sank into that of an aged man’s.
“Sirius?” asked Harry, his Adam’s apple bobbing. He grit his teeth together. His eyes felt like they were sizzling in the corners.
“Yesssss?” the voice descended into a growl. Sirius became Snuffles. He crouched back on his hind legs, and the tension in his muscles was clearly evident. “You let me die!” he snarled. Foaming saliva crawled from between his teeth and dribbled down his chin.
The twisted features of Percy/Sirius/Snuffles disturbed him enough to snap him into near lucidness. “No I didn’t!” he screamed at the beast, bent forward in a show of false courage. It hurt him to speak against the creature he knew to be his godfather. However, he couldn’t feel his fingers and something felt odd.
A low rumble cascaded out his throat and into the air. He knew what that meant. “You did kill me. Now you will never see me again!”
“Sirius?” Harry whimpered.
Snuffles’ long snout hung low. His eyes bore into Harry’s, as though he could read the latter’s thoughts, thoughts apparently so well protected with lock and key.
“Wait . . .”
WHAM! Harry felt his skull crash into the headboard.
“Aargh!” he yelled. A muffled smack hit him across his face. It didn’t hurt, but was an unpleasant way to be woken. “What do you want?” he shouted in a husky tone.
“Wake up,” a female voice replied simply.
“Ginny? What’s going on?”
“I want to talk.”
Harry groaned. “Can’t it wait?” He winced as he pushed himself up onto his elbows. “I think I may be bleeding . . .”
Hermione sighed. “No, it can’t wait. If I have to be up, so do you two.” She sat on the end of Ron’s bed. It wasn’t immediately clear whether or not it was an accident, but Ron kicked his girlfriend, and in doing so, he knocked her to the hardwood floor, smacking her elbow in the process. “Ron!” she shouted, but had a grin plastered to her face.
She pounced on him, ticking his vulnerable sides. His giggles were somehow disturbing. Ginny and Harry rolled their eyes in unison.
“Listen,” she ordered. “Percy just died. Do you think you two can compose yourselves sufficiently to wait a few days before you resume playing around as if you were toddlers?”
The stern tone sounded so out of place that the other three froze and looked at her with a mixture of offence and awe.
“Gin . . .”
She threw up her hand to quiet them. “I think we should go back to Hogwarts tomorrow.”
“What?”
“Why? Mum-“
“Because we have more important things to do than sit around and let . . . things happen to us. We need to train, and we need to begin now.” Her stiff finger pointed towards the floorboards for emphasis.
Hermione interrupted the concerned silence at this declaration of intent. “Um, Gin? Don’t you think everyone needs a bit of time? The Releasing Ceremony was only yesterday . . .”
“Time for what? To mull over what happened? What good would that do?” She bitterly ground her teeth together. Her arms crossed her chest, a clear sign that she wasn’t willing to even consider another possibility.
Harry felt as if it had been years since Percy’s death. It seemed as if they’d been awake for just as long.
She continued a moment later. “On second thought, I can do it on my own. I’ll go back, with or without you lot-“
“We’re not going to let you go alone,” interrupted Harry.
Ron, as yet, said nothing. He merely worked the dirt out from beneath his fingernails and then admired the artistry of the door.
“I know you’re angry-“ Hermione began.
“Hmph.”
“But I don’t want this to cloud your judgment.”
Harry agreed. “If we run off and do something out of anger, well, we’ll probably mess up somewhere.”
Her eyes squinted accusatorily at him. “Oh really, Harry? Should we not do anything based solely upon our emotions? Let’s talk about that.”
“Let’s not,” he growled.
Hermione tried to keep peace between two very hard-headed friends. “Now’s not the time to argue. Ginny, you want to train, right?”
“Yes,” she spat, as if Hermione was an idiot.
“Well first, we can’t do anything until you catch a better attitude.”
“All you are doing . . . all of you! You’re sitting back, waiting for everything to come to a head!” Ginny furiously tossed her hair over her shoulder and paced, her shoes emanating small clicking sounds with each hurried step. She stopped, turned on her heel, and focused her expectation on Ron. “Don’t you have anything to say?”
“No, not really.”
She hunched over, her own fingernail digging into her chest for emphasis. “Oh, don’t you do this to me, Ronald-”
“Don’t call me Ronald!” he advised indelicately.
“Harry’s been your friend, and now you’re not interested in training to go into battle with him?” she accused. “And Percy! He was your brother too. You would let that . . . that . . . demon decide everything for us? When we live and when we die? Well . . . I won’t let you!” In short time, she hovered directly over Ron like a vulture.
Harry saw the situation only getting worse. “Ginny, back off!”
The change in the young girl frightened Harry. He’d never seen this side of her. It almost seemed as if her eyes had turned a putrid, yellowish colour. Every inch of her skin glowed pink. Her crowning glory was her ragingly ruddy and flushed face, complete with dead purple rings around her eyelashes.
“You! Shut it!” she bellowed malevolently at the boy who dared to admonish her. A split moment later, she and her pointed finger floated heavily a scant centimeter from Ron’s nose. It was as good as a verbal threat.
Ron would never hit his sister, but Harry saw a dangerous spark alight in his pupils. Charging, he grabbed Ginny around the middle with both arms and pulled her backward. She fought him tempestuously, flailing her arms and ripping her nails across Harry’s steadfast grip. “You owe me, Ron! You have to do it! You owe me!” she roared.
Somehow, Ginny managed to knock Harry’s leg out to the side, causing him to partially collide with the footboard on the way to the floor. Ginny landed on top of him. The weight of her body sent all the air fleeing his lungs in a rush. She rolled off of him, and watched, horrified, as he lay gasping for whatever scrap of air he could force down. “Oh, gosh, Harry? Harry? Are you ok? I’m sorry . . . I didn’t mean . . .”
She grabbed hold of his head and laid it in her lap. Her hand rested on his heaving chest.
“What did you do?” demanded a stiffly standing Ron. “He’s out of air! Nice goin’ Gin! Really-“
“Ron,” was all Hermione said. It was adequate. Hermione urged Ron to move with her toward the two on the floor. He glared savagely at his sister, but came over anyway. They seated themselves on the floor.
Harry sat up as the breath came in larger bits. Soon enough he was almost recovered, his chest burned, but he could inhale again. Breathing more slowly than usual, he took up a more comfortable posture, and looked to his friends to speak. For a minute, nothing was to be said. The words could only be felt in the thick, palpable air.
Hermione glowered at the floor, tapping her nails. The ticking sound seemed to help her to think. She glanced up, caught Ginny’s eyes, and gazed into them unflinchingly with a concoction of severe annoyance and tenderness. “We can’t go to Hogwarts, Gin. You were lucky enough to have the customary two-week mourning period cut short. We can go back on Sunday.” As Ginny began huffing again, she continued. “But, what we can do is train here.”
The idea blazed in Harry’s brain. “Of course! This is the headquarters of the Order! I’m sure we can get them to show us something new when they have a second.”
“It’s too bad the library is full of Dark Arts books instead of counter-curses,” muttered Ron, sounding not-at-all disappointed.
“No, wait . . .” thought Hermione aloud.
Ginny, finally, tweaked a half-smile. “We could get to know the enemy a little.”
Ron’s dismayed countenance was laughable. “We can’t learn the Dark Arts. What’ll Mum say?”
Hermione rolled her eyes exaggeratedly. “It’s not learning, it’s studying!” She flashed a smile and leapt up.
“Mum will pitch a fit when she finds out,” Ginny mused.
“You can’t tell her! You don’t even care about them, do you?” Ron scolded. “Percy’s dead! There’s nothing you can do now to bring him back! What you can do, is actually act like a . . . person, and go speak a little comfort to Mum, or talk with Bill a bit. What’s the point in running off like some little . . . warrior, determined to take down Voldemort? You can’t! You’re just a little girl!”
Without a sound, she strode over to Ron, and slapped him across the face. The CRACK echoed as if someone had Disapparated. A warm flush in the shape of a hand graced his cheek. “This little girl can do things with magic you’ve never thought of. This little girl isn’t trying to save her dead brother, she’s trying to save her friends! She’s trying to make sure her brother doesn’t die, because he doesn’t seem interested in learning how to save his own arse when Dumbledore isn’t around!”
His fists balled into tight wads of resentment. “I don’t need you to protect me! I can protect myself! I just . . .” he paused and ran his hand through his hair. “I don’t want to spend the rest of my life preparing for the end if it.” He mindlessly roamed around the room as he continued. “I want to live, Ginny. I want to have some happy moments. I want to have a good life, instead of worrying and fighting it all away.” He flung his hand wide and collapsed onto his quilt.
Hermione caught his arm and rubbed it a bit, with her bottom lip protruding. Ginny managed to let a tear mark her distress at such a statement. “I want that for you too . . . but we can’t have it unless we make it happen.”
Harry felt rather uncomfortable in their powwow, but finally had something to say. “All we’ve been doing up until now is preparing, Ron. And we’ve had some great times, haven’t we?”
He looked a little confused, which was far better than flat refusal. Hermione slipped her hands around his neck and pulled him into a close embrace. “We’ll make happy moments. I promise.”
Ron seemed comforted by the affirmations of his closest friends.
After spending an inordinate amount of time in the Black family’s library, Harry found a book that seemed useful. Libri della Vomica was written my Mateo Vermacielli a few centuries prior. In English, it was called Book of the Cursed. Inside were hexes and different types of spells designed for torturing victims. There were handwritten notes written in the margins. Harry guessed the book had belonged to Sirius’ younger brother. Fortunately, the odd pages were the original text, and the even pages were the translated text.
He went downstairs, and settled into a velvety red chair in the Drawing Room. After scanning the contents, he flipped to an interesting section on hallucinations.
Abruptly, he heard a door clap shut. He hastily looked toward the door, but saw that it was closed, as he’d left it. His eyebrows crawled together. There was a squeak. Harry was sure he didn’t make the sound. He wiggled around in the chair to try to recreate it, but couldn’t manage. There were no springs in the chair. Then, he heard the voice of an adult woman.
“What is it Arthur? I was busy, you know.”
There was another squeak. Harry followed the direction from which the noises were traveling. He discovered they wafted from the fireplace, which shared a vent with the fireplace in the room directly above the Drawing Room. Harry groaned quietly.
“Darling,” the voice began tenderly, “baking a thousand cakes won’t change anything. It won’t help you. I think you need to talk. Perhaps you could use a good cry.” There was a soft patting noise and the rustling of clothes.
“I don’t need to cry!” she shouted. “Crying isn’t going to bring him back either!” Despite her vehement protests, Harry could hear the sniffles stemming from sorrowful mucus. He wanted to leave the room, but was worried they would hear him. This was aside the fact that he appeared to be frozen to the floor.
“It wasn’t your fault, Molly. Deep down, you have to know that,” Arthur cooed to his wife.
“Maybe I wasn’t the one that killed him, but I wasn’t trying very hard to protect him! We dragged this whole family into the Order of the Phoenix, and look where it got us? Now You-Know-Who is after us! He murdered my son to get to the rest of us. Whose fault is that, Arthur? Whose?” CRASH! Harry winced at the impact of glass shattering against the back wall. “I’ll tell you who! Me! Us! Why d-did . . .” she panted, “Why . . .”
Mrs. Weasley broke down into sobs yanked from the soles of her feet through her mouth. It was the bleak sound of agony transmitted restrictedly through the incapable human body. Harry stopped breathing as he heard Mr. Weasley’s deep voice match hers in a tormented harmony. Her voice was muffled, but she continued her thought. “Why did he have to die? Why couldn’t it have been me?” she keened weakly.
Great hiccups of breath followed this statement.
“Molly darling, please don’t say that. Please . . . I couldn’t live without you . . . We’ll . . . it’ll . . .” Harry could hear no more. It didn’t matter, because the darkness in his heart absorbed all the light Harry may have felt. A dementor had lodged itself fixedly within the young man’s body.