Harry opened his eyes. It was incredibly quiet, except for the slow drone of a lawnmower outside. No . . . wait. Someone was there with him, snoring. He turned his head cumbrously. His neck was stiff and felt as if bark had crusted over the flesh. He was more than a little surprised to see Dumbledore himself.
“Professor?” It was little more than a whisper from a small child. Or at least a boy who felt like one.
The headmaster opened one eye, peeking around to the figure calling him among the white linens. Clearing his throat, he said, “I was only pretending to be asleep, for your benefit, of course.”
A small smile touched Harry’s lips. “Am I dead? And if this is Heaven, are you?” he asked airily.
A frown graced Albus’ face, allowing gravity to pull it down momentarily. “You’re not dead, I am very happy to say. It was . . . brave of you, to hold up as long as you did.”
“I wasn’t brave. He didn’t use many spells on me . . . except those chains . . . and the killing curse. I didn’t die? Are you sure? He said my blood protection is gone.” His voice felt quiet and weak, much to his dismay. Unlike last year, however, he wanted to talk. He wanted all the answers right then and there, or risk another life. “Hermione?” he ventured worriedly.
A corner of Dumbledore’s mouth tweaked. “She is alive. Hurt, but alive. And she will get better, but it will take time.”
“Time was something she always had,” he half-heartedly joked. “Professor? Will you please tell me how I came to be here . . . wherever I am. Tell me everything.”
With a curt nod, the headmaster obliged. “You are in St. Mungo’s. The shocks your mind received have damaged your body, but that is being tended to. Voldemort used the killing curse on you once more. He failed . . . in more ways than one. He underestimated your bond with Hermione, and your hope. He underestimated her abilities at Occlumency as well. Throughout the time you both were there, Voldemort was trying to gain access to the crucial information her mind contained. She successfully diverted him and blocked him for hours on end “ something even accomplished witches and wizards cannot do. Voldemort did only what he could. He tortured the information out of her. Potions and tricks were not accessible in a timely manner, and were inaccurate.”
“So she told?” Harry hung on every word, hoping against hope that she didn’t give away every secret.
“I do not know,” he shook his head forlornly. “Only she knows.”
A mediwizard-in-training came in and changed the dressings on Harry’s burn wounds. He was shocked to see how many there were, and decided to not look in the mirror for some time. As the young, blond man bustled out of the room to help other patients, Harry turned back toward the headmaster. “Those chains . . .”
“Trickery at its worst form,” he answered imperiously. “They fool the victim into believing they can do . . . all the truly horrible actions mankind has invented. In truth, we are all capable of doing dreadful things, under the right circumstances. He displayed Hermione before you to heighten your response. She was encased in the same type of chains. Every mark that mars your body, she believed she inflicted. What Voldemort did to you and Hermione was psychological, more than physical. Your wounds will heal. The burns will scar. Hermione’s hair will grow back. These things, we all know. However, no one can heal the sores of our souls, and no one can erase the pain. Were I to obliviate the both of you, you would still feel the effects of the events you shouldered the past several hours.
Harry thought for a moment before asking, “Professor? Why did they cut Hermione’s hair?”
“It does seem silly, doesn’t it? Hermione is a strong young woman, and one of the brightest witches I’ve ever known. Yet, however strong our spirit is, we identify ourselves through our physical traits. Hermione, who has always had that brilliant hair of hers, felt loss without pain. Voldemort sought to humiliate her, for only the moment where she felt lost without the identifying feature. Her hair is growing back even now, but when she looks in the mirror, every day, she will see herself without hair, and she will remember what Voldemort had done that day.”
Harry swallowed a hard lump in his throat and lay his head back on the pillow. “I don’t know how she did it. How she came through.”
“She has immortal spirit. And she has you.” He smiled down at Harry.
“What do you mean? I was the one that . . . .”
“Wandless magic “ or natural magic, as I prefer to call it “ helped you both more than you know. When you were bound, your sympathy for her was so strong, you sent a strength to her that cannot be described. It is like the magic of life. When you were blinded and deafened, this natural magic heightened. What you sent to her was a thousand times more valuable than any object on earth. You sent her new faith and life. She was able to remain strong enough until the Order found your location. I have an idea, also, that perhaps your ring lent a power none of us are yet aware of.”
“How did you find us? All I mentioned was that I smelled fish.”
Dumbledore chuckled. “Ms. McKee is a rather mysterious creature, is she not?”
Harry’s eyes widened.
“She contacted the Weasleys, who contacted you, by virtue of the mirrors you found. I am surprised you did not guess at why they would be boxed up, when they could be so useful.” His eyes sparkled as he continued. “The Marauders weren’t the only ‘pranksters’ in Hogwarts. Once upon a time, I charmed a mirror to record all of the interaction between the others. There are times when I surprise myself, even. I digress. Ms. McKee recognized the coachman on the cart that carried you away. Despite our differences, she did a good thing in coming to me. It was she who helped lead us to you, Harry.”
“But she’s horrible!”
“We must trust that there is good in all. We cannot pretend to understand the reasons behind every action, but we can hold faith that all will work out in the end. I have faith in young McKee, and I think you should as well.”
Harry yawned awkwardly as Dumbledore stood slowly, and sat gingerly on the side of Harry’s bed.
“Harry, I do not wish to tell you this now, but I cannot in good conscience wait to do so.” He took a slow breath, allowing a speck of knowledge to appear on Harry’s face. “Petunia Dursley has been . . . murdered.”
He stopped breathing. He had no idea what to say, or how to respond. He didn’t like Petunia; she was cruel and hateful. But she was family. Could hate, like love, transcend even death? If he was asked several months ago, he would have responded with a resounding yes. However, now that he’d lost so many, it seemed pointless to bother. There was that moment before he left Privet Drive when he was sure Petunia cared more than she could show. Harry would hang onto that moment, and keep it as a good memory. Sorrow drenched his body, and it became too heavy to hold up. He sunk into the bed.
“You will go back to Privet Drive this summer, but there will need to be a few changes.”
Harry wasn’t sure whether that was good or bad.
It had been a difficult several weeks.
By the time Harry and Hermione were allowed to exit St. Mungo’s, her hair had grown back to its normal, immense volume. He caught her on an occasion or two touching it, as if she could hardly believe it was there. They had a few scars. Ginny and Ron were very attentive to them, as if they could hardly believe they were there.
Yet, when the two mental casualties looked at each other, there was an acknowledgement that they had changed on the inside. They felt beaten, and felt the stronger for it. Life was fresher and grass was greener. Fortunately, they were excused from exams, but encouraged to study their hardest for their N.E.W.T.s.
They practiced Occlumency with care at first, slowly working their way back to the brazen attempts of before the day they were stolen. It was ironic, really. They had been stolen away, but given something neither could specify or deny. It was an innate strength, hope and faith. It was unwavering. It was love at its most primal force.
Dumbledore’s speech at the End of Term Feast had held an unnerving warning.
”Students of Hogwarts, we have seen another trying year. We have lost some of our own, but they will never be forgotten. We strive to overcome those that would hurt us for those already passed. It has, however, become clear to me that there is, in fact, a traitor amongst us who would deter us from our goals.”
A ripple of panic ran through the Great Hall. Whispers echoed off the beams of the ceiling.
The headmaster pressed on, his eyes holding a vicious glow that few students had seen. “You know who you are. If you come forward on your own accord, we will forgive you. However, if you continue on the path of destruction, destruction will follow you and swallow you whole. Know that evil cannot triumph!” he bellowed. His eyes connected with individual students’. “As long as there is one lone fighter, he will win, in the end. Hope does not die. Faith is immortal. Good is pervasive. You cannot escape that which you condemn.”
Now, Harry rested in a lone compartment on the Hogwarts Express. It was his request. He stared out the window, at once wanting to escape Hogwarts and wanting to escape his impending stay at Privet Drive. It was now odd, to have Dudley be his blood protection. Ironic, considering how much of Harry’s blood he’d shed over the years. There was sadness hovering over him, but there was also a quiet acceptance. This summer, he would be training. This summer, he would be training with McKee.
The compartment door slid open so quietly, Harry didn’t even come out of his thoughts until he saw Hermione sit on the seat before him. Usually, not many words passed between the two. They seemed to already know what each other was thinking. Today, however, she opened her mouth to talk.
“I have to tell you.”
“Tell me what.”
“I told him,” her lower lip shook with the force of her disappointment in herself.
“What?” he hissed. Quiet acceptance didn’t mean he had a mind to accept that Hermione had given everything away. “What doesn’t he know?” he spat.
“About the ring . . . Enid’s soul. And the skin. He doesn’t know about the skin. I told about the legend. I didn’t say anything about anything he could have used against you,” she said quickly.
Harry let the information sink in. The legend could have been told to Voldemort at any time. It was the ring and the skin that were important. He blinked at his best friend, whose eyes were wide and glassy.
“I blocked him from the important parts,” she affirmed.
“I know. I knew you wouldn’t tell,” he said huskily.
She swallowed. “I told him that, and he thought he knew everything he needed to know. I told him so he would think he knew everything. He . . . he went to use the curse on you then.” A tear fell from her eye.
“What happened?” he leaned forward unconsciously. Her face was flushed, from what emotion, he couldn’t tell.
“I . . . I don’t know. It didn’t rebound on him, like last time. It was like you absorbed it, and just stood there. But . . . then he began screaming. I couldn’t understand what he was saying. He disappeared . . . Disapparated, I think . . . I’m sorry, Harry,” she choked. “I didn’t know that he would try again.” She crashed into him in a hug that never ended.
She cried for only a moment. Then they merely sat in their compartment, staring out the window, resting in the warmth of each other’s arms. The war wasn’t over, but it was their peace.