4. The Day After
Harry approached one of the barred cells without realising he was even moving; his legs seemed to be thinking faster than his brain. He instantly recognised the body in this cell: the long, twisted face, paler than usual in death, belonged to Antonin Dolohov, one of Voldemort’s closest former Death Eaters. He was unmistakably dead “ his unblemished body and open, lifeless eyes bore testament to the Killing Curse.
Why? Harry couldn’t comprehend the logic of breaking into Azkaban to murder what would surely be a natural ally…
Judging by the silence from the other Aurors, they were as lost for words as Harry. Savage, usually so self-assured, was examining the dead form of Walden Macnair a few cells along, his blue eyes jerking from side to side under his slanted eyebrows, as if trying to spot some sort of trick.
“Check they’re dead,” snapped Savage, finally seeming to remember where he was.
Harry tapped his wand against Dolohov’s door, thinking “Alohomora”, and “ with a feeling of revulsion “ crouched down and touched Dolohov’s unshaven, prickly neck. There was certainly no pulse and his skin was cool to the touch.
This man had almost killed Hermione when Harry had only been in his fifth year at school, and had committed several hideous crimes to earn his place in this prison; but Harry could only feel a mixture of repulsion and pity at the sight of Dolohov’s lifeless, shrunken eyes and thin, starved-looking face.
Harry felt so overwhelmed by the events of his night that all he could do was stare at Dolohov for a while, blankly… was it ultimately Voldemort that had caused this dead man to be lying there, in this cell, he thought dimly. Or could it perhaps be accredited to a bad upbringing, peer pressure, or a troubled youth? Had Dolohov simply chosen to become the man that he had been? Harry couldn’t help but recall Dumbledore’s words to him all those years ago that had resonated with him ever since: It is our choices that show what we truly are, far more than our abilities. But people can change, thought Harry, as Snape and Regulus Black’s faces formed in his mind’s eye. Whether this man, Dolohov, would ever have had a change of heart was now a mystery…
Harry’s musings were interrupted by the clattering doors of the lift opening at the centre of the chamber, announcing the arrival of some Aurors Savage had sent to check on the other prisoners.
“Rigel,” said Proudfoot, one of the Aurors exiting the lift, “the others are all alive. They seemed surprised to even see us, said they claimed they didn’t know anything was going on.”
Savage nodded once. “Well, each level is sound-proof so they are probably telling the truth. The scum who came here obviously knew where they were going.”
There was one final pause before Savage said, “There’s nothing more we can do here. The bodies can be arranged to be moved later; we must first report what has happened, immediately.”
Harry, the other Aurors and the Hit Wizards, in sombre silence, retraced their steps through the wizard gaol, back through the horrific murder scene in the outhouse, and arrived on to the rocky island.
The grey tinge that had beset the eastern horizon earlier had now transformed into a crimson blaze, though the heavy clouds filtered only a pink, ethereal illumination on the rest of the sky. A thin breeze was all that remained of the cruel wind, but the sea was still choppy, casting its chill waves uncertainly against the jagged rocks. Without noticing any of this, Harry turned on the spot and disappeared with his colleagues into the near-darkness of the rising dawn.
* *
Kingsley smashed his fist against the table.
“We are blind!” he cried, each syllable weighted with a fearsome intensity.
It was ten in the morning and Harry was sat in Kingsley’s office, having been requested to join an emergency meeting for senior Ministry employees. Kingsley’s unprecedented fury had not only startled each Head of Department huddled around the large oak table, but all the portraits of previous Ministers donning the lilac walls, too, were rapt in their attention.
“All these years,” said Kingsley, his voice slow but booming, “we presumed we were coexisting in harmony. We had no inkling that even one among our community was a remaining supporter of evil. There have been no serious arrests in seven years. And this day, we find ourselves confronted with not one, but what appears to be an army of Death Eaters, or whatever these people are. How did this happen?”
Kingsley paused, and judging from the ensuing silence his question was not simply rhetorical.
“Minister, if we consider the apparent sheer number of this opposition, perhaps it suggests what is really happening,” offered Gawain Robards, Head of Magical Law Enforcement. “Last night Azkaban was breached, and thirty guards and five Griffins “ which themselves might as well count as fifty wizards “ were slain. At what appears to be the same time, twenty of their number were patrolling the skies above Potter’s house. I’d estimate that they are at least one hundred strong in total, maybe more, and I simply cannot believe that this many wizards and witches have been secretly conspiring without our notice. Surely, we are seeing the work of few with the influence of many. The majority must be under the Imperius Curse.”
“Unlikely,” said Pius Thicknesse, Kingsley’s Senior Undersecretary. “It takes a very powerful wizard to control multiple wizards at once for a sustained period of time. And even if each caster of the Imperius Curse was able to control two victims each, we would still be faced with over thirty true Death Eaters…”
“If I may, Minister,” interjected Percy Weasley, who had recently been promoted to Head of International Magical Cooperation, “I believe we shouldn’t discount the possibility of foreign involvement, if it indeed seems unlikely these wizards are home grown.”
“Again, unlikely,” said Thicknesse. “There have been no coups or known unrest abroad recently. There would be no reason for them to begin trouble here, and moreover only British wizards, possibly within the Ministry, would know Potter’s area of residence or the whereabouts of Azkaban.”
Harry felt this a pertinent moment to join the discussion. “When the Death Eaters cornered me, one of them spoke to me, saying something about avenging Voldemort. He definitely didn’t sound foreign and I’m almost certain I recognised the voice from somewhere.”
Kingsley nodded in agreement.
“I think, for now, we must assume that some of our own British wizards are part of this new organisation, of their own free will,” said Kingsley, his voice a little calmer, though his dark eyes were still blazing. “We must ask ourselves under what banner they are united. What is their common goal, and why attack Potter and go to such great lengths to murder Voldemort’s old Death Eaters? What would they hope to gain by doing this?”
After a short pause, Robards said, “I see only two explanations, Minister. Either they are hardcore Voldemort fanatics, who simply wanted to avenge everyone they considered responsible for their hero’s death; or, they considered the imprisoned Death Eaters, and possibly Potter, to be some sort of threat that they had to eliminate, in order to further their cause “ whatever that may be.”
“Well, we must prepare for the worst,” said Kingsley. “We must presume this wasn’t a random series of attacks, but that there was a deeper purpose to them. In the immediate future we must alert the public to be vigilant, send leaflets about basic household safety, have transparency with the Daily Prophet; we learnt last time round that vigilance is preferable to simply not acting for fear of an outspread of panic. If everyone is on the alert, it will be that much harder for these neo-Death Eaters, if you will, to carry out whatever plans they have in mind.”
A series of nods passed around the cluttered table in agreement.
Harry only half-listened to the remainder of the meeting; his lack of sleep was beginning to catch up with him, and his mind could only drift to his home, to Ginny, hoping that she was safe, in between his conscious effort to resist his drooping eyelids. It came as a relief when the meeting came to its conclusion and Harry was permitted to have the rest of the day off in the aftermath of his sleepless night.
* *
Ginny drew the curtains as Harry got into bed.
It was still light outside, though the onset of twilight was swiftly approaching in the weak November sun.
Harry had spent the afternoon with Ginny, alone, explaining what had happened since he left for the Ministry, and later discussing their plans for the future. Ginny had agreed to temporarily quit her role as Chaser in the Holyhead Harpies Quidditch team after their final match of the season next week, in light of her pregnancy.
They had also begun to amuse themselves talking about possible names for the baby “ until Harry began to nod off, and Ginny, also tired, insisted they both went to bed.
Ginny slipped on her pyjamas and crawled into bed, cuddling close to Harry.
Harry lay there for a second, contented, savouring the warmth and peace that he could only feel when he was with his wife.
“No sneaking off tonight, Harry, agreed?” whispered Ginny, kissing his cheek softly.
Harry nodded drowsily, and after a few moments Ginny resumed whispering.
“Whoever these idiots are who tried to kill you, whatever happens, we’re going to get through this, Harry, I promise… and in a few months, we’ll still be here, but with a beautiful baby. Isn’t that great... and weird?”
Harry smiled. “I love you, Gin.”
“I love you too, Harry, and I always will.”
Harry grinned and, feeling completely at peace with the world, drifted finally into unconsciousness in the arms of his wife.
In no time though, a mass of hooded figures were suddenly swooping towards the window.
“No!” bellowed Harry. “How did you find us?”
One of the cloaked wizards clambered through the window, his wand raised. Harry reached into his robes for his wand and screamed “Expelliarmus!”
Nothing happened.
“Oh, please,” sneered the hooded man, with the same familiar sounding voice as Harry’s attacker from the previous night. “I don’t think Expelliarmus is exactly going to help you against me.”
“It’s saved my life before,” said Harry, baffled at why his spell didn’t work, preparing to cast another.
But before he could do anything, Harry was falling and the hooded man’s mask leered down from above, still jeering, “I don’t think Expelliarmus is exactly going to help you…”
Harry was about to hit the ground. The dark hillside was about to break his bones if the masked men above didn’t kill him first…
“NOOO!”
With a jolt, Harry sat up, drenched in cold sweat. He was still in bed and Ginny was stirring. He scanned the room, half expecting to see a hooded man, or hear the swish of a cloak. But Harry slowly became aware that he had returned to reality “ it wasn't real…just a dream…
He lay back down, feeling a little foolish. Ginny was thankfully still asleep. Harry could still hear the taunting voice of the Death Eater in his head “ ‘I don’t think Expelliarmus is exactly going to help you.’
And then it clicked. Harry realised, in one moment of dawning comprehension, who had spoken to him last night before trying to kill him. But no “ it couldn’t be…