Chapter 56
A Trail of Umbrage
Try as he might, Harry could no longer control his yawns. With a satisfying fullness courtesy of the splendid tea and sandwiches, his body was demanding recompense for what it had been denied the previous night. Regretfully, Ginny untwined herself from where they had been cuddling before the fire and bid her farewell.
“I promise we’ll spend more time together tomorrow, Gin. I’ll block out the entire evening for you,” Harry promised. “I really didn’t sleep well last night.”
“Then I’d better use tonight to get a head start on my next week’s assignments.” Ginny sighed dramatically as she gave him a last quick peck.
Harry staggered towards his room, his eyes fixed on his dragging feet to help them keep moving. The door was barred by the bodies of Ron and Hermione who each grabbed him by an arm and guided him back into the nearest chair.
“Not so fast, bud,” Ron began. “We have a bit of news for you.”
“Quite important news, as a matter of fact,” Hermione elaborated. “We think we’ve worked out how to destroy Hufflepuff’s Cup!”
Instantly, Harry’s fatigue dissolved. He looked at each of them in turn to indicate that they had his undivided attention.
“Thought that might bring you back to the land of the living.” Ron gave a satisfied nod.
“Maybe a bit of caffeine would help,” Hermione offered as she walked over to the velvet cord.
With thoughts of an invigorating cappuccino dancing through his head, Harry sat back to listen to their accomplishments. Hermione explained how she had reasoned that since the Cup was made of gold, it was a soft enough that it could be hammered or melted. Not wanting to search out alchemy equipment in the Potions dungeon, they had attempted to borrow a sledgehammer from Hagrid but it had been too heavy for either one of them. Once they explained to him that they were seeking to drive a picture hook into the wall, not a fence post into the ground, he took them to Filch’s shed where there were all manner of tools and implements.
“Then he left us the key and told us to be sure to lock up when we were finished. He had an engagement at the Hog’s Head that he didn’t want to miss,” Hermione continued.
“Said we could just return it to him tomorrow, preferably after lunch.” Ron chuckled as he held up an old fashioned wrought iron key. “Turns out just about every type of hammer in that shed starts to get warm in your hands when the Cup is near.”
“But there’s this one in particular that gets so hot you can barely hang onto it,” Hermione added. “Had to borrow an oven mitt from the kitchen elves.”
“You’ve already tested it and everything?” Harry cried. No wonder he’d not seen them all afternoon. “But the Cup is still in the trophy case; I checked on it when I took a shortcut back from the Quidditch pitch.”
“That’s the decoy,” Ron asserted. “Hermione made the substitution late last night.”
“What did you use?” Harry was practically speechless.
“The golden cup that Ginny brought you with punch from the victory party. When I saw it there before the sofa, I was immediately inspired and hid it away in my room until needed,” Hermione admitted with a grin. “It wasn’t too difficult to conjure a pair of handles and some engraving.”
“Brilliant!” Harry breathed excitedly. “That was bloody brilliant! Let’s go destroy the thing!”
“Wait a minute, mate,” Ron cautioned. “Get a bit of espresso in you and your motor goes into overdrive.”
“What’s to keep Lupin from showing up unexpectedly? With Tonks at the Hen Party, he’s bound to be at loose ends,” Hermione warned.
“Lupin won’t be a problem tonight,” Harry stated succinctly.
“Unless you two are no longer on speaking terms, I suspect he will,” Ron countered.
Choosing his words carefully, Harry explained, “I’m not really supposed to say anything, but Lupin is laid up for the evening “ lingering reaction to the full moon. That’s why Tonks is doing her best to stay out of his hair.”
“It’s not serious, is it?” Ron asked in a low tone.
“Nothing that one of Madam Pomfrey’s sleeping draughts won’t cure,” Harry asserted.
“That’s a relief.” Hermione sighed. “He’s been through enough lately as it is.”
“Then you see why I think tonight is ideal.” Harry smiled wickedly.
“Let’s do it!” Ron agreed, careful to keep his voice down.
Grabbing the Map and the Invisibility Cloak for emergencies, they made their way down the grand staircase to the entrance hall. Lots of students were milling about, either going into supper in the Great Hall or just leaving. The three of them had no trouble blending in as they turned down the staircase that led by the kitchens, past the entrance to the Hufflepuff common room and into the secret corridor that connected to the greenhouse vestibule. They had not been this way since attending Herbology classes in their fifth year but it still felt familiar.
One last review of the Map showed that Ginny was in the library, Neville was in the Ravenclaw common room (no surprise there) and Filch was patrolling the other side of the castle with Mrs. Norris in close proximity. They twisted the iron candle bracket to reveal the secret opening and stepped out into the shadowy vestibule that served as an impromptu mud room. The last of the sunset would still be visible on the horizon, but this deep within the castle walls it was already night.
“Let your eyes get accustomed to the darkness,” Hermione cautioned. “It’s too early for moonrise yet.”
As soon as they could see reasonably well, they set off towards their objective. Slowly, they eased open the door to the courtyard and clung to the deep shadows next to the first two greenhouses. They could be seen from the third floor window gallery if they were not careful. Filch’s shed was just beyond, next to the low battlements that formed the garden wall in this area of the castle.
With unsteady hands, Ron worked the key into the old rusted padlock, exhaling in relief at the click of the lock opening. Hermione reassured them in a whisper that the shed was a lot roomier inside than it appeared and that there was no window. Harry waited until Ron shut the door silently behind them before lighting his wand tip.
It was astounding, really, what a bit of an enlargement spell could do, Harry concluded as he surveyed the small workshop. A fair-sized worktable and anvil dominated the center flanked by two whole walls of tools. Gingerly, Ron set the bundled Cup on the worktable as they donned protective gloves followed by safety goggles. Harry was impressed that Ron and Hermione had scoped everything out so thoroughly.
“What about ventilation?” he whispered as Hermione returned from hasping the door and placing a muffliato charm.
From underneath the table, she extracted a small battery-powered fan of the type that Muggles would use. But then, Filch was a Squib, wasn’t he?
Harry stared at the various iron mallets and hammers that had been assembled on the table before him. “I thought you’d already solved this one,” he remarked.
“We did, mate,” Ron assured him. “We just wanted you to experience it for yourself.”
One by one, Harry brought the tools near the Cup and felt the warmth through his dragon-hide gloves. Hermione handed him the oven mitt so he could pick up the last implement: a miniature hammer that could not have been used to drive more than a tiny nail. It was a dull brassy color as if it had once been golden. The extra padding on his hand made it difficult to pick up the dainty hammer, but he was finally able to manage it. Before he got within twelve inches of the Cup, the hammer became so hot that he hastily dropped it onto the table surface.
“We may need some water if this thing gets overheated,” Harry suggested.
Ron nodded and procured a metal bucket which Hermione half-filled with the aguamenti charm.
Deciding to take turns once they could no longer stand the heat, Hermione offered one last bit of caution, “The oven mitt will be totally ineffective if it gets wet or the hammer itself is wet. So let’s reserve the water for emergencies.”
The ground rules established, they elected to allow Ron the first blows since he was clearly the strongest among them. With bated breath, Hermione unwrapped the Cup and placed it on its side upon the anvil. Harry took a cautionary step back as Ron moved into position.
Following Snape’s example, Ron raised the tiny hammer high and slammed it into the Cup with all his strength then immediately drew his hand back for another swing. There was no noticeable effect other than a dull buzzing in their ears. Then on the seventh whack, the ring of metal on metal reverberated ominously as the Cup seemed to stretch and then flatten itself into a misshapen puddle. Every implement rattled in protest from its holder along the wall. Harry turned just in time to catch the handle of a garden hoe that had fallen forward as Hermione deftly jumped out of the path of some brooms that collapsed sideways like so many dominoes. A small splash was heard as Ron dropped the hammer into the water, followed by the soft hiss of steam. Suddenly, the silence in the shed was so absolute that it seemed to ring in their ears.
Softly an unearthly keening issued forth from the remains of the Cup, building slowly in intensity until the molten metal cracked from the center outward. As the individual shards buckled against one another like broken pond ice, a familiar black light shone from the center. They drew closer to view the secrets that the Horcrux’s destruction had brought forth.
The image wavered slightly then returned to total blackness. The recognizable voice of Voldemort was heard from the sidelines, “Is the device absorbing our energies?”
“Yes, my Lord,” came the fawning reply. The sound of shuffling footsteps could be heard then Peter Pettigrew’s face was imposed in close relief as he peered critically at them.
“Good…” returned Voldemort coolly. “It will function like an existential collar, so to speak; she will be anxious to guarantee its safety without even knowing that she does so.”
“Never leave anything to chance, that’s what I always say,” Peter remarked happily.
“What was the nickname your so-called school friends gave you?” The tone was menacing.
Harry could almost see Pettigrew swallow apprehensively off-screen as he replied shakily, “Wormtail, my Lord.”
“How fitting…. Well, Wormtail, do you recall the comment I made to my enemies who sought to unburden their deepest convictions at death’s door?”
Pettigrew skittered into view and nodded eagerly. “It was one of your finest moments, my Lord. You told them that if you wanted a catalog of all their poorly formulated opinions, you would read it in their entrails.”
“Very good… so you were paying attention.” Voldemort’s voice was like blackest silk.
Pettigrew looked up and nodded joyfully at the unexpected compliment, wringing his little mousey hands at the same time.
“That sentiment goes double for my followers,” Voldemort shot back. “Now, has Fudge’s Handmaiden arrived?”
“I will bring her forth, my Lord.” Pettigrew was strangely subdued as he scurried out of range.
There was a clear intake of breath from the trio as Dolores Umbridge waddled into view, looking up a Voldemort just like Pettigrew had done before. Really, who else could Fudge’s Handmaiden be? Harry considered wryly.
“A pleasure, my Lord, always a pleasure,” simpered Umbridge. “Do you have another special project for me today?”
Involuntarily, Harry felt the bile rising in his throat. He’d forgotten how much he loathed that woman’s voice.
“The offer is appreciated, but I will let you know.” Voldemort’s voice held the politeness of a poisonous spider. “For now, the ground work that you have laid is sufficient. Large chunks of the edifice are now mine for the crumbling.”
“I do what I can.” Umbridge giggled girlishly. “Are you certain that you do not wish me to recruit Cornelius to our way of thinking?”
Voldemort’s eerie laugh reminded Harry of the raucous cry of a crow. “As fitting an end for him as that would be, the shock to his system might be irreversible. Let him continue to vehemently deny my existence. For now, we can accomplish that much more in anonymity.”
“He has appointed me to Hogwarts, my Lord.”
Harry could almost see Voldemort’s acidic smile as he replied, “And you will succeed marvelously there, my dear. No one surpasses you at running furrows around the truth. With the Ministry’s weight behind you, you will be able to accomplish much to sow the seeds of discontent and chaos.”
“Yet you want no direct attacks on any particular students?” Umbridge’s expression reminded Harry of a dog panting expectantly for a treat.
“We must not show our hand too soon. It was a great risk sending those dementors to the Muggle suburb; they could so easily have been traced back to you.”
“But everyone knows the dementors are under the control of the Ministry, my Lord,” Umbridge returned sweetly. “The blame could easily have been assigned to any bureaucrat that you wished to undermine.”
“So I reasoned earlier, but I believe it may have been too rash an act, too soon. I want you to concentrate on subtleties. I want them to doubt the knowledge base and support system they have been given.”
“You want me to undermine the other teachers, then?” surmised Umbridge. “Cornelius’ inherent distrust of Dumbledore will come in handy.”
“A distrust born of jealousy and insecurity; you should be able to exploit that to no end.” Voldemort’s voice had gone quiet and flat, more unnerving for its total lack of emotion.
Umbridge smiled like a demented jack-o-lantern. “You will be most pleased with the results.”
“Of that I have no doubt. Have you not already demonstrated yourself with the restrictive werewolf legislation that you drafted? Potter must not have any authority figures he can look up to.”
Harry felt the anger begin to burn in the pit of his stomach even though this was not really news to him “ just the callousness with which it was delivered.
“The Ministry is doing its best to locate Sirius Black, my Lord.”
“Good. We have other plans for Black… As for Dumbledore, you must do your utmost to paint him as a clown “ an academic buffoon, if you will.”
“You still believe that Dumbledore’s papers may hold the key that you seek?”
“It is only a long shot, at best.” Voldemort’s sigh was like dry wind rattling through skeleton bones. “Yet I cannot deny that there may be other documents or devices in that enclave that may prove useful. That much I was able to observe firsthand so many years ago. You must find a way to search that office thoroughly, but you must not be discovered under any circumstances.”
“I understand, my Lord. No one can know that I am anything but Fudge’s trusted associate. My authority stems from a bureaucratic capacity only.”
“Ah, you understand the motivation of your role well, Dolores…. As a mark of my favor, I am entrusting you with an extra special artifact…”
The image shook violently then faded to black. With an eerie hiccup, the light was swallowed down through the cracked metal. The shards themselves seemed to be drawn magnetically to the same spot, disappearing as if they had been sucked down a drain pipe. With a loud crack, the anvil was split in two as the three of them jumped back in unison.
A deathly silence settled over the shed and its inhabitants.
Hermione was the first to break the silence once they had returned to the seventh-year common room.
“You know, it’s not as if any one of us haven’t had such suspicions about Umbridge,” she began.
“But to be confronted by the reality… I can’t just blame it on my instant dislike of the woman anymore,” Ron asserted.
“It does make it a lot harder to ignore,” Hermione agreed. “I don’t think I would’ve been able to repair that anvil without help from the two of you, though.”
“Think nothing of it,” Harry replied. “I’m still feeling a bit shaky about the whole thing, myself.”
“It’s surprising how much more unnerving tonight’s events were. Despite all our past animosity, Snape’s presence when we destroyed the Potions book made it seem less threatening,” Hermione mused.
“So it’s not just memories of the victim’s death that can be trapped inside the Horcruxes, is it?” Ron pondered.
“Voldemort used them as a motivational tool for his followers in various ways,” Hermione summarized.
“Seems that his arrogance was partially his undoing, though,” Harry concluded. “Snape couldn’t bear to be in the presence of the one entrusted to him and it appears that Umbridge also attempted to distance herself. We can only guess at the reasons Lucius Malfoy had for wanting to rid himself of Riddle’s diary.”
Ron furrowed his brow in concern. “Following your line of reasoning, chum, the photo album probably became a Horcrux on the night that… at the expense of your parents…”
Hermione attempted to shush Ron, but Harry interrupted her. “It’s all right, Ron. Those thoughts need to get out in the open if our mission is to succeed. Don’t think I haven’t come to a similar conclusion myself.” He sighed wearily. “I dread that the fury of the photo album might very well be directed at me.”
“You don’t know that, mate,” came Ron’s assurances. “If it was made…that night, there may not have been enough time in the heat of battle to add any extra booby-traps.”
“In light of the current sightings of Death Eaters in Godric’s Hollow, do you think they might be searching for the album?” Hermione asked in alarm. “I can see why you wouldn’t have been able to share that with Lupin…”
“I dismissed that line of thought early on,” Harry returned. “And it’s important to remember that the actual report was of suspected Death Eater activity “ they are the only ones that would have been able to break through the Fidelius Charm.”
“What makes you so certain, Harry?”
“Pettigrew is their key to entering what remains of my parents’ home. All those years that he masqueraded as Scabbers, I shared a dorm room with Ron. He must have seen me looking through that album on numerous occasions.”
“So you think Voldemort knows you have the album in your possession?” Ron whispered.
Harry nodded morosely. “He would have found great satisfaction in the irony of it.”
“But wouldn’t it have been dangerous to put it in the very hands of someone so likely to wish its destruction?” Hermione countered.
“I’m sure he assumed the album was the one thing I would never be able to bring myself to destroy,” Harry supplied.
“The arrogant git probably assumed no one would ever discover the secret of his Horcruxes, either,” Ron observed solemnly.
“We promise we’ll be right by your side, Harry,” Hermione added with fervor. “It’s the least we can do.”
“After we make a thorough search for added curses and jinxes,” Ron promised.
“I thought you said there probably wouldn’t have been time for that,” Harry returned.
“Still pays to be careful,” Ron insisted.
The sound of stone upon stone alerted them that Neville was finally returning. He had his arms full of books that barely escaped tumbling to the ground as he righted his body.
“Hi, Ron, Hermione, Harry,” he cried happily. “What, no Ginny?”
“She left earlier to finish some schoolwork,” Harry explained. “Looks like you were doing likewise.”
Neville nodded with a secretive smile. “The Ravenclaw common room has a lot more study areas. Luna and I can always find a corner to ourselves.”
As Neville bid them goodnight and retired to his room, Harry followed for a private word.
“You know there’s no reason you can’t bring Luna to our common room,” Harry began hesitantly.
“Thanks, Harry.” Neville smiled. “I just thought with Ginny… and the privacy issues… Well, it was best that I give you as much space as possible.”
Noting Neville’s obvious embarrassment about the whole situation, Harry was glad to put the lad’s mind at ease. “Neville, Luna knows about Ginny and me,” he stated simply. “She was the one who told me I should follow my heart.”
The slight coloring of Neville’s face indicated that he, too, had concluded that Luna had not been above taking her own advice.
“Thanks, Harry.”
“Think nothing of it.”
When Harry turned around, the common room was empty of Ron and Hermione. With a long delayed yawn, he felt the excitement of the evening finally draining from his body. In its wake, his sleepiness returned tenfold. He stumbled into his bed gratefully only to be disturbed by recurring dreams of his detentions with Dolores. With her sinister quill, she was exhorting him to etch his left forearm directly with the phrase: Only Dolores is allowed to tell lies.
Lupin’s stamina was still flagging on Monday. After valiantly ploughing through his full schedule of morning classes, he seemed unusually wan when Harry arrived in his office that afternoon.
“You shouldn’t have to put on an act for me,” Harry offered. “We can just get caught up tomorrow, if you like.”
“Perhaps a bit of tea, some sandwiches, will help,” Lupin replied doggedly.
“As much as I enjoy your company, Remus, let’s leave it for another day. I know you’re too stubborn to admit it “ even to yourself “ but what you really need is a nice long nap before supper tonight.”
Lupin started to protest but then just shook his head in resignation. “I can’t honestly say that doesn’t sound appealing. Now if only I could convince Tonks…”
“I’ll go head her off in her office,” Harry suggested. “She won’t be able to override me so easily when I tell her that I demanded to be rescheduled for a double session tomorrow.”
He closed the office door slowly to the sound of Lupin’s amused chuckle in the background.
Harry smiled inwardly at the special surprise he had prepared for his double session. After spending most of the previous evening succumbing to his inspiration, he had returned to the Headmistress’ library that day to double-check some facts. Hermione walked in just as he was consulting a reference book on Greek and Roman mythology atop the large reading table.
“Lupin’s got you following the latest fad, I see,” she observed.
“Actually, I was doing something on my own,” Harry admitted self-consciously. “I won’t deny that the current interest in the subject inspired me, but I went in a totally different direction.”
Hermione raised her eyebrows in appreciation. “Inspirations from a sleepless night?” she surmised with unerring accuracy. Realizing she had caught Harry off-guard, she added, “An overactive mind will keep you awake, demanding to be heard. It’s certainly happened to me enough times. Can I see what you’ve got so far?”
Harry agreed hesitantly, unexpectedly protective of his intellectual property. “Just recognize that these are my thoughts “ my delusions, if you will “ not Lupin’s.”
Harry had found a few unexpected gems in his last-minute research so he returned to the new opening paragraphs he was crafting. Finally satisfied, he looked up to find Hermione staring off into the distant mountains, his preliminary draft open to the last page.
She turned to Harry. “There is a theory among wizard scholars that the Greek and Roman mythos were based upon true events; the deities that walked among men were nothing more than witches or wizards. Since all the tales date from a time long before the Statute of Secrecy was established, their simplistic explanation has a certain ring of truth to it, don’t you think?”
“I suppose it’s certainly possible,” he allowed. “Do you have any other thoughts on my essay?”
Hermione gave Harry a very searching look. “Only that it’s an imperfect analogy based on an allegorical series of tales.”
“So you don’t think I should share it with Lupin?” Harry asked with a sinking feeling.
“I didn’t say that.” She smiled softly. “It’s just the sort of thing that Lupin would appreciate. Don’t change a single word.”
With Hermione’s endorsement, Harry felt more confident than ever about the parchment sheets that he had carefully stored in his book bag. The final test, of course, would rest with Lupin.
The professor was chuckling heartily over a student essay that he held in his hands when Harry entered his office that afternoon.
“Just in the nick of time, Harry.” Lupin grinned. “I wouldn’t have believed it if I hadn’t read it with my own eyes!” He indicated the small stack of papers spilling from the side table.
“Do you give your students extra points if they make you laugh?” Harry smirked. “Fred and George may want to reconsider returning for their N.E.W.T. levels.”
“Not intentionally, no,” Lupin admitted, “but these essays aren’t from my classes, anyway. Professor Hooch is just sharing the more amusing ones with the rest of the teachers. I warned those who chose not to participate that they were just opening the door to wild speculation…”
“I’m sorry, you’ve lost me, Remus,” Harry commented as he settled himself into the other chair and helped himself to some tea.
“Professor Hooch gave her students an assignment to write about some element of the Circus Maximus that tied in with Muggle studies. She intentionally left it open-ended so they would each follow their own muse. Not surprisingly, quite a few of them wrote about the deities that were present “ and most importantly, those who would have been fitting for those teachers who were not present.”
“That certainly seemed a popular topic for the Gryffindor girls seated next to me.” Harry nodded sagely. “You know Leah and her followers, the Layettes?”
“That precocious bunch?” Lupin scoffed. “I’m certain I saw their contribution right here. The first years were allowed to work in small groups so I’m sure they all banded together….Ah, yes, here it is!” Lupin reviewed the document briefly then turned a piercing gaze in Harry’s direction.
“Tell me, Harry, just how much did you contribute to the Layettes’ conversation that day?”
“To tell you the truth, they knew more about the subject matter than I did. I only suggested that they explore the food offerings that Professor Slughorn had organized for possible tie-ins.”
“The epicurean angle was duly noted. Anything else?”
“I may have mentioned Narcissus to Leah, but she already had Endymion in mind.” Harry shrugged.
“Most interesting. Do you realize, Harry, that everyone else who selected a deity for Mister Stevens chose Apollo? Then along come these little scamps and they instantly hone in on his narcissistic ego.”
“They have a rather jaundiced eye,” Harry supplied, remembering some of the outrageous and flattering comments that had been made about Lupin himself.
“Extraordinarily insightful, I’d say.” Lupin chuckled with obvious amusement. “Then if that’s not enough to knock your socks off, they pin Filch as Charon, the ferryman on the River Styx.”
“The River that runs through Hades?” Harry laughed appreciatively.
“Precisely. I’m sure Mrs. Norris would have made a tasty morsel for the three-headed dog, Cerebus!” Lupin roared.
“You threw that last part in yourself, Remus!” Harry accused amid the laughter. “Tell me, did anyone think to categorize former teachers? Dumbledore as Zeus came to mind almost immediately.”
“Yes, Dumbledore as Jupiter was very popular,” Lupin corrected Harry automatically. “But so was Snape as Pluto, the god of the Underworld. One paper even suggested the Farquars as Icarus and his father, Daedalus.”
Harry nodded knowingly. “I took a similar detour myself,” he began, feeling his heart flutter in anticipation. “I’ve a bit of surprise for you, Remus, something I worked on during my idle time yesterday evening.” With a small flourish, Harry removed the precious stack of parchment from his book bag and set it before his mentor. The cover sheet was neatly lettered: The Odyssey of Severus Snape.
Lupin’s eyes widened in surprise as he lifted the document tentatively in his hand. “But I gave no such assignment,” he whispered in awe.
“Call it a bit of self-motivation,” Harry volunteered. “My mind wandered off on its own the night I sat the vigil before the Whomping Willow.”
“It won’t unnerve you if I read this right now?” Lupin asked with excitement dancing in his eyes.
“Not at all, Remus, I’ll just pour myself another cup of tea.”
“I suggest you pour us each a glass of port, instead.” Lupin gave him the Marauder’s grin. “This, I want to savor.”
With a tentative smile of his own, Harry complied with Lupin’s request, doing his best to quell the nervous churning in his stomach. He would hate for Lupin to be disappointed but then he remembered Hermione’s earlier comments and felt bolstered by her words.
Harry took a few small sips of the sweet, ruby liquid and reclined his head on the leather seat back. Idly, he allowed his mind to wander over the salient points he had made in his essay. How he had likened the prophecy about the Chosen One to the Trojan Horse and how Snape’s life had been short-circuited when he realized that the Trojan victims included some of his closest childhood friends. How this event had triggered Snape’s voyage of atonement where he was continually navigating a precarious course through the twin threats of Scylla, the beast, and the whirlpool, Charybdis -- representing the conflicting demands of the Order of the Phoenix and the Death Eaters. The torture and death of his innocent young wife was compared to the suffering of Odysseus’ crew who perished bit by bit along the way. He presented the blessed oblivion of the Lotus-Eaters as the temporary solace that a troubled man might find in any type of overindulgence and substance abuse that Severus, like Odysseus, wisely refused. Snape’s sly suggestion to Lily that she personally supervise his rehabilitation while they were at school mirrored the seductive bargaining of the enchantress Circe. Even Snape’s half-blood status found an echo in Odysseus’ ancestry as the great-grandson of the deity, Hermes, on his mother’s side. Harry had considered drawing the parallel between Snape’s second wife and Penelope, but decided that his information was too incomplete to do so with any sort of conviction.
As Harry found himself relaxing, the shining words of his conclusion were brought to the forefront of his mind:
But unlike our Greek hero, the voyage of Severus Snape has yet to reach its conclusion. With the death of the old, loyal dog that recognized the true contents of his heart, Severus can no longer depend upon the word of Albus Dumbledore to defend his true intentions. He stands among us, disguised as an old man or otherwise, awaiting the opportunity to prove his true mettle. Like the epic conflict of the Trojan War that had even the Olympian deities taking sides, few of us will find ourselves standing on the sidelines when it comes time to render final judgment on his actions. That he has been able to beguile both the Dark Lord and the Order of the Phoenix to think of him as their loyal member is a tribute to the legendary eloquence of Odysseus himself. Just like the scholars who still argue whether this King of Ithaca was in truth a hero or a scoundrel, the same ambivalence applies to the actions of the Half-Blood Prince.
Harry downed the last swallow of wine from his glass to find Lupin watching him intently.
“Are these all your own words, Harry?” he asked softly.
“I doubt anyone else would lay claim to them.”
“I wouldn’t be so sure,” Lupin returned with a small smile. “I, for one, would be pleased to present such original thoughts as my own work. As it is, I can only take credit for laying the foundation… Harry, I am impressed.”
“Truly?” Harry was incredulous. After all, this was a man who took pride in thinking outside the box.
“Absolutely,” Lupin asserted with conviction. “I’d consider sharing it with the other teachers if it didn’t present so many facts of a rather personal nature. Still, I’m definitely showing it to the Headmistress -- if you don’t mind, that is. I can’t take credit for an assignment I never made.”
“Remus, who would ever know?”
“I would, Harry, I would. That is the ultimate arbiter for all of us.”
Mindful of those words, Harry wondered whether Snape would ever allow himself to find the absolution he sought. Or would he forever hold himself hostage in his own mind, seeing himself as deserving of eternal torture like those sentenced to the fires of Hades?
Hermione broke out into a grin the second Harry stepped through the sconce.
“You look jubilant,” she called. “Lupin liked your essay?”
“Yes, he did.” Harry confirmed, still not feeling as if his feet were truly touching the ground. “Thanks for giving me the confidence to actually share it with him.”
“You did all the work, Harry,” she replied graciously. “I can’t even take credit for the inspiration.”
No, Harry thought, but he certainly did wish he could thank Snape personally. The mirror had been totally silent at the appointed hour last Thursday and he had so wanted to offer his appreciation for the invaluable assistance with Lupin’s potion. None of the sarcasm or verbal dueling that Snape thrived upon; just plain, unadulterated, abject thanks. Harry suspected that he had channeled quite a bit of that into his Odysseus essay, but putting the quill to parchment had somehow felt like a temporary catharsis.
“A package arrived today. I had it sent via the Headmistress to avoid Filch’s embargo.” Hermione winked happily as she handed Harry a shallow box.
He undid the brown paper wrapping to reveal a photo album of scarlet damask embossed with golden Gryffindor lions. The inside pages were heavy black paper, waiting expectantly for the photos to be attached with small golden corners.
“The photo mounts are magical, no licking or adhesive,” Hermione explained. “Just position the photos and they will adhere as if magnetized. Release with the dissendium charm.”
Harry beamed up at her, so pleased that she had made the selection for him. Hermione’s taste was always impeccable. “It’s perfect. I’m going to get started on it right away.”
He was midway through attaching the new photos when he was distracted by a peculiar rustling sound. Harry stopped his movements and the room felt unusually silent with Ron and Hermione gone downstairs to supper. Perhaps it was just his imagination. He became engrossed in the arrangement of the next pages and the noise started up again. So furtively at first as if to be almost beyond the range of hearing then gradually increasing. The sound reminded Harry of the iridescent beetle that Dudley had imprisoned in a matchbox one summer; it had slowly and systematically devoured the cardboard until all they found the next morning was the gaping hole where the creature had escaped to freedom during the night.
After a bit of investigation, Harry traced the sound to the discarded packing box resting against the side of his desk. Gingerly, he removed the wadded up brown paper that had served as padding around the album and lobbed each of the balls into his dustbin. There in the corner was another small package, rolled up in brown paper with the edges tucked in neatly. Of course, Harry remembered, Hermione had said something about ordering extra chemicals to replace what had been wasted trying to duplicate his old family photos.
Harry reached down to place the small bundle in a more secure location before it was discarded with the empty carton. He stopped with his hand a mere inch away as his skin began to crawl peculiarly. He held his breath for almost a minute before the rustling sound was loud enough to be heard once again. Donning his dragon-hide gloves, he dragged the carton away by one of its open flaps. With fumbling fingers, he inserted the small key that unlocked the bottom desk drawer and withdrew his parents’ photo album before locking the drawer again. He placed the album in the center of the floor and then, hardly daring to breathe, he withdrew the now silent package of developing solutions from the carton.
Before he could proceed any further, Harry was jolted by the sound of the sconce cycling open and voices in the adjoining room. Quickly, he kicked the photo album beneath his bed and placed the package of chemicals on the top of his bureau. Tossing the gloves onto his bed covers and pasting a nonchalant smile on his face, he stepped out into the common room.
With obvious relief, he saw that it was just Ron and Hermione. Hermione whipped off the lid to the bowl that she held in her hands to reveal the tantalizing smell of shepherd’s pie. She placed it on the low table before the fire and then looked up expectantly at Harry.
“Supper was almost over so I brought you something to keep you from missing out,” she offered.
“Good thing,” Ron observed wryly, “you look like you just saw a ghost. Did Sir Nicholas make a detour through the tower? I’ve never known him to come up this far “ fear of heights, you know.”
“I was trying to look innocent.” Harry smiled sheepishly as he took a huge spoonful of minced meat and potatoes. “Must have spooked myself in that room all alone… Thanks, Hermione, this was just what I needed,” he added between mouthfuls.
They joined him in some Butterbeer as he devoured the food before him, finally laying the spoon gratefully in the empty bowl.
With an encouraging nod from Ron, Hermione began gingerly, “Tell me what got you spooked, Harry. We all grew out of that after our first year; the normal noises of the castle shouldn’t give you a moment’s thought.”
With a nod, he bade them wait while he retrieved the items from his room one by one. Ron moved the low table so the photo album could be placed directly in front of the hearth where it would be out of immediate sight of anyone entering the room. Harry brought the chemicals out in his gloved hands and then lowered the package nervously until it was within inches of the album cover. Immediately, he felt an off-putting prickling under his skin although there was no sound. After about a half a minute had passed, though, a noise similar to flapping paper could be heard.
“Do you think it might be…?” Ron’s eyes were as round as Quaffles.
“Let’s separate the chemicals on this far table, Harry. There should be more than one bottle in that bundle,” Hermione suggested.
They removed three separate bottles marked with fancy chemical names that might have been Greek for all Harry knew.
“Wait, I recognize this stuff from when I helped develop pictures before.” Ron smiled at the memory of the shirt that he had totally ruined that day. “Try this one with the longest name; that should be the solvent. Caustic bugger, too.”
Harry picked up the bottle that Ron indicated and brought it near the weathered album cover. It was all he could do to keep his arm steady. The liquid in the bottle could actually be seen throwing itself against the glass sides, trying to reach the album cover. Yet a similar test with the developing and setting fluids showed no reaction.
“I think we’ve found a way to destroy the Horcrux,” Hermione announced with conviction. “I say we do it tonight before Neville gets back from his rounds.”
“That’s some pretty nasty stuff,” Ron warned. “We’d better find a place where there’s adequate ventilation.”
“How about the bathroom?” Harry recommended. “We could do it in the bottom of the bathtub.”
“I’d suggest some old clothes, too,” Hermione added.
Harry adjourned to his room and immediately threw open the lid of his steamer trunk. Using both hands to paddle through all the discarded items, he finally caught sight of the institutional grey sweatshirt at the very bottom. With a mighty heave, he hoisted it out from under a mountain of other garments. If anything, it was more pathetic that he remembered, still reading “meltings” across the chest where one of Dudley’s band of thugs had managed to rip the “S” right off. The jagged hole had been hastily patched with contrasting purple thread before being cast-off for Harry’s use. When Harry balked at proclaiming allegiance to such an elitist school, Uncle Vernon had wagged a fat finger and growled, “Don’t think for one minute, boy, that I’m going to use even one quid of my hard-earned salary to put a sweatshirt on your back that reads ‘St. Brutus’s’!”
Ron, too, had returned from foraging among his old clothes. But instead of wearing the artfully splattered shirt that everyone recalled from his last run-in with developing fluids, Ron had donned one of Mrs. Weasley’s Christmas jumpers whose sleeves barely reached past the elbows.
Trying to make sense of the irregular patterns scattered over the creamy beige yarn, Hermione surmised, “Did you manage to walk into the kitchen just as the oven exploded, Ron?”
“Not exactly.” Ron grinned, totally unaffected by her sarcasm. “This canvas represents many happy memories from my third and fourth years, if you insist. Pomegranate crisp…beet relish…”
So it doesn’t take the arrival of the Minister of Magic himself to set off a food fight at the Burrow, Harry concluded with a barely contained smirk.
Hermione cradled the metal tub she’d used to wash Crookshanks when he’d come back from the greenhouses covered in stink sap in their fifth year. It had been months before the scratches faded enough from her forearms to wear short sleeves again. The tub made a hollow, reverberating clang as she deposited it on the tile floor. Inexplicably, she had also brought her bathrobe and an armful of foaming bath crystals and lotions.
“We’re not going to soak it clean first,” Ron complained as he rolled his eyes.
“This is just a diversion in case Neville comes back early,” she whispered in an exasperated tone that said it should have been obvious. “No one will question whether I take a few extra minutes with the door locked when I’m taking a bubble bath.”
Acknowledging her foresight in preparing a Plan B, Harry retrieved his Invisibility Cloak in case a hasty retreat was warranted. Glad that Lupin had insisted on teaching him how to add their new suites to the Marauder’s Map, Harry put Ron in charge of keeping watch for any unexpected arrivals.
Near the door, Ron’s voice continued to wax nostalgic over the various shadings on his jumper. “Sorrel soup….cranberry chutney…blackberry treacle….gooseberry tart…lavender fairy cakes….”
“You’ll want to do the honors, Harry,” Hermione deferred, “since it’s your sacrifice.”
“I’m perfectly willing to let you do it, Hermione,” Harry admitted. “Your hand will probably be steadier than mine “ we don’t want any splatters of dangerous chemicals.”
“…violet Easter egg dye...savory peach ham glaze…pumpkin praline ice cream…”
She nodded that she was willing. “Have all the original photos been returned to the album?”
“It’s complete,” Harry replied solemnly as he thought of the empty frame that was lying face down on his bedside cabinet.
“Just one last thing I’ve been meaning to ask you, buddy,” Ron interjected. “All those other times that we destroyed… these objects. Well, did you happen to feel anything in your scar? Anything to alert us of danger lurking nearby?”
“Nothing,” Harry conceded. “Not even when young Riddle’s figure came out of the diary “ and he became solid enough to snatch my wand.”
“No wonder Dumbledore concluded that Voldemort couldn’t feel it when the Horcruxes were destroyed,” Hermione posed with sudden insight. “What’s left behind is just an echo of reality.”
With one last look at the grim faces around her, Hermione placed the album in the metal tub. Harry then assisted her to lower the entire thing into the deep tile bathtub. With a final shove of the protective goggles on the bridge of her nose, Hermione broke the wax seal around the stopper of the solvent bottle. Kneeling by the side of the tub, she allowed a small trickle of the solvent to drizzle onto the worn leather.
The caustic smell that Ron had described was immediately noticeable, although the exhaust system in the bathroom efficiently wafted it away. There was another smell, though, similar to charred rubber that rose much more strongly. It was oddly familiar to Harry until he recognized it was the smell of burning hair; he remembered when Fang’s fur had been singed as he was trapped inside Hagrid’s cabin last year. The odor seemed to grow in intensity until it began to sting their eyes and it became difficult to take a deep breath.
What looked like a small cloud of smoke was hovering just over the surface of the album. Hermione tried to blow it away so they could see beneath, but her breath barely rippled its surface. Abruptly, the smoke began to writhe with colored shapes. Although indistinct at first, they soon came into sharper focus and Harry could see that they were images from the photos projected in a ghostly fashion onto the surface of the smoke.
Ron came to their assistance as the three of them blew with all their might. The white tendrils parted grudgingly to permit them to see the sodden mass of pulp that had once been the photo album. With a heavy sigh, Hermione allowed water from the spigot to fill the metal tub and pour over its sides to dilute any remnants of the solvent, even though it was likely that most had been sublimated into the air. Like the ashes from a fire, tiny bits of paper floated away down the drains that fed the Black Lake. When the last pieces were washed away, there was a nasty brown crust that had stuck to the bottom of the metal tub. Harry thought he could discern the faint outline of the album edges as well.
On the far side of the castle, the Headmistress offered Lupin a chair before her desk. Slowly, he sipped the exotic tea she had generously poured for him. When she had completed her careful reading of Harry’s essay, she looked up and met his eyes directly.
“You are certain these are his own thoughts?” she asked.
“So he says “ and I have no reason to doubt him. He’s always been honest enough to admit that he can’t tell me something rather than lie.” As an afterthought, Lupin added, “He also refers to a memory from my school days that I have shared with no one else.”
The Headmistress smiled in that inscrutable fashion of hers. “You have done a remarkable job with him, Remus. He is clearly no longer a child. What’s more, you have taught him how to use his brain.”
“I’ve played to my own strengths, that’s true.” Remus basked in the Headmistress’ compliment. “Harry just needed some interaction on a one-to-one basis with someone willing to trudge through the mud with him, if need be. Someone who believed in him because they saw him as an individual.”
“Someone other than Ron and Hermione, that is,” McGonagall offered sagely.
“Yes, it was essential that it be an adult. Someone whose judgment he trusted. He would never have shared that essay with me otherwise. It was most impressive, don’t you think?” The pride was evident in Lupin’s voice.
The Headmistress nodded. “He’s keeping an open mind. He wants to know how the story ends, but he’s not certain that we have interpreted events correctly up until now.”
“There’s no doubt that our facts have often been rather sketchy, Minerva.” Lupin sighed. “Not to mention that he has a large store of first-hand information.”
“Still, his interpretation is remarkably sympathetic.”
“He has an innate generosity of spirit. I think he finds it difficult to categorically condemn anyone.”
“What about you, Remus, what do you think?” Her eyes gleamed intensely. “Is Severus the devil incarnate as his rampage through the school a year ago seemed to demonstrate?”
“I don’t know what to think, Minerva,” Lupin conceded softly. “The man is like quicksand through my fingers. What’s more, I think that a lot of what we see is a shielding mechanism that he uses to keep the world at bay “ instinctively.”
“Are you implying that we may never know the totality of it?”
“Severus is entitled to his privacy the same as we are. The key to the issue seems to be to make him want to tell us, back him into such a corner.”
“That implies that I might have an inkling of what motivates him “ and I don’t,” the Headmistress admitted with a weary sigh.
“Perhaps asking his wife?” Lupin suggested. “You are good friends with her, after all, Minerva.”
“She still maintains that he walked out on their marriage.”
“Has she filed for dissolution?”
“No.”
“She doesn’t strike me as the type that would fritter away, pining uselessly for a man that she doesn’t think will return. She’s much too forthright for that,” Lupin remarked candidly.
“You think the fact that she has taken no action speaks for itself?” McGonagall was eager to hear Lupin’s conclusions.
“Yes. If he’s not with her now, she knows where to find him. I would bet my life on it.”
“What about Harry’s obsession with the man?” she urged. “Why can’t he put him out of his mind for long?”
“Can any of us? Harry’s trying to make sense out of the nonsensical. He’s been through a lot; it would be far more damaging if he kept it all bottled up inside.”
“Then he’d be like Severus, wouldn’t he?” McGonagall observed glumly.