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Entry tags:
Liminality: Chapter 4 [HP]
Title: Liminality
Fandom: Harry Potter
Pairing/Characters: Tomarry, brief!Harry/Ginny, Harry & Ginny, Ginny & Tom, Harry & Hermione & Ron, Hermione/Ron, Severus Snape & Harry
Rating: M
Chapter Word Count: 4,803
Chapter Count: 4 / 6 | Chapter 1 | Chapter 2 | Chapter 3
Summary: AU: EWE; MoD!Harry. Harry Potter, saviour of magical Britain, has proved himself to be great at dying and coming back again. He’s just not as good at the bits in between coming back and dying again.
Notes:
---
“I understand that you probably have concerns at the speed this is going, sir,” Harry says carefully. “But there are so many unknowns that I really think this is the best course of action.”
Kingsley says, “I see. And what do you think?” he asks the other senior aurors.
They look at one another and shrug almost as one person. “I trust Potter’s judgement, sir,” is Mallory’s response. Bermann and Falvry nod in agreement.
Harry winces. Kingsley’s expression doesn’t change, but Harry knows that there is little Kingsley finds more irritating than a lack of opinion or autonomy among his senior staff.
“Very well,” says Kingsley. “Carry on with the covert investigation, then. But I expect that you’ll be ready to jump in as soon as the suspect makes their move.”
“Yes, sir,” Harry agrees. “That won’t be a problem.”
“Keep me informed,” is all Kingsley says, but Harry takes it for the dismissal it is.
“You say their routine hasn’t changed,” says Harry as he walks down the hall. “But maybe we should watch how they react during the rest of these former Death Eater interviews. Do they seem overeager or covetous or anything?”
“The default setting for all the juniors is overeager,” Bermann says drily. “But we’ll keep on a lookout for any unusual expressions.”
“Thanks,” says Harry.
When he gets back to his office, Ron is there waiting for him, sprawled in one of the visitor’s chairs.
“Please be here about work,” Harry pleads, shutting the door and raising a silencing charm just in case. “If we have to have the other conversation right now, I might actually die.”
Ron snorts. “Please, I have more class than that. My plan is to get you drunk first.”
Harry laughs, relaxed in a way that he’d never have been able to manage if this pseudo-confrontation had occurred before his conversation with Hermione. “Spiking my butterbeer?”
“With veritaserum, if necessary,” says Ron solemnly.
“Well, it’ll have to wait until tomorrow. I have Teddy this afternoon, and then Ginny's coming over.”
Ron sighs with theatrical resignation. “Fine, fine,” he says. “But no, I really am here about work. Greengrass was able to find a copy of one of the books on the list. It’s called Travels Through, and no I did not forget a word, that’s the whole title.”
“Anything hints in there about what they could be after?” asks Harry, perking up.
“Haven’t really gone through it yet, honestly,” Ron says, shrugging. “But Greengrass and Nott both found other books in their personal libraries, too. Not books that were on the list, but books on the same topic that might give us more information. What do you want us to do with them?”
“Where are the other titles we’ve found being held?” asks Harry.
“Right now, in Patil’s desk drawer, basically.”
Harry hums thoughtfully. “Why there?”
Ron raises his eyebrows at him. “Well, we know our thief can get into the ministry, can break into storerooms, and can unlock our lockboxes. The standard setup didn’t exactly seem wise.”
“Who has access to Patil’s office?”
“Just her. And after yesterday, she has more wards in there than Gringotts.” Ron watches Harry closely. “You know who it is, don’t you?”
Harry leans back in his chair. “The thief? Yeah, I have a pretty good idea.”
Ron eyes him for a long moment, then nods slowly. “Alright. So, the books?”
“Keep them in Patil’s desk for now,” says Harry. “And keep the juniors busy, but leave them out of all of the serious research.”
Ron sighs. “So it’s like that, then.” He grins. “At least we have plenty of them to spare.”
Harry laughs. “We do, at that.”
---
“Andromeda,” Harry chides. “You were supposed to bring me my Teddy, not whoever this is.”
“I’m Teddy!” the little boy squeals. “It’s me, Uncle Harry! It’s just my hair that’s different!”
“You?” Harry looks the little boy up and down, wearing an exaggerated thinking face. “Hmm, no, you can’t be my Teddy. When I last saw him, he was this tall,” he says, holding his hand so that it’s down two centimetres from the royal blue crown of Teddy’s head. “And you, well, you’re practically a giant. No, you’re certainly not my godson.”
“I am, I am! I’m growing so much. Grandma says I’m taller than my mum was!” says Teddy.
Harry looks at Andromeda, his lips twitching.
“Taller than your mum was at your age,” Andromeda clarifies.
Harry grins. “Are you ready to go, Teddy?” he asks the little boy.
“Yes! I packed my favourite story, my colouring book, my crayons, and my dragon.” Unprompted, Teddy pulls off his backpack, unzips it, and pulls out a stuffed dragon that seems larger than the inside of the backpack all on its own. “Cousin Draco gave him to me.”
“That’s nice of him,” says Harry. “Did you tell him thank you?”
Teddy does not acknowledge this question, having been distracted by the toy, which is now blowing little orange cotton ball flames. “His name is Sneezy,” he tells Harry.
Harry eyes the mess of cotton that’s building up on Andromeda’s clean stone flour. “I can see why,” he says. “Why don’t you put Sneezy back in the bag, and we’ll pull him out again when we get to Grimmauld Place.”
“Okay!” says Teddy. He stuffs the dragon back into his backpack and grabs Harry’s hand. “Bye, Grandma!”
“Goodbye, my darling,” says Andromeda.
“Uncle Harry,” says Teddy a moment later, when they’ve apparated in front of Harry’s door. “Mr Kreacher knows that I only eat strawberries now, right? I don’t want any of that green stuff for my tea.”
“I think I mentioned it,” says Harry as he opens the door and ushers Teddy inside.
The sight that greets Teddy when he makes a bee-line for the parlor has him stopping dead in the entranceway, his jaw dropping.
The child-sized table that’s been set up is covered in strawberries. There are little pink sandwiches that have been cut out into strawberry shapes and studded with seeds, little pink muffins that were baked in strawberry-shaped tins, and little pink tea cakes that are topped with sliced strawberries. Even the children’s tea service is painted with little strawberries on the side.
Kreacher adores Teddy.
Just by the table is an adult chair with a small end table by one arm. On this end table rests Harry’s own tea: one plain sandwich sliced into quarters and a steaming mug. It’s exactly what Harry would have wanted, but the comparison between his tea and Teddy’s forces him to bite back a grin.
Harry tucks a pink napkin into the collar of Teddy’s shirt, and then he sits back and let’s the boy’s chatter wash over him.
The feeling of peace is profound, and Harry thinks that, whatever Hermione believes, it’ll be some time before he’ll be ready to trade his time with his godson in exchange for a permanent residence beyond the Veil.
“And I asked Grandma if I could go back to Madame Durand’s class, but Grandma said I can’t.”
Harry blinks in surprise and takes advantage of Teddy’s enthusiastic chewing to interrupt. “But I thought you didn’t like Madame Durand! You were so excited to leave her class behind!”
“Yes, Madame Durand was just dreadful,” says Teddy, sounding exactly like a mini Andromeda. His hair flickers to a grey-streaked black, and his eyes go from honey-brown to silver. “I like Madame Dubois much better; elle est très gentille.”
“Then why do you want to go back to Madame Durand’s class?” asks Harry.
Teddy explains, “Madame Dubois doesn’t let us play Exploding Snap, because Charlotte got burned one time.”
“I see,” says Harry. “So even though you didn’t like anything else about Madame Durand, you want to go back to her class just so that you can play Exploding Snap in school?”
Teddy nods cheerfully and bites into another pink tea cake. They look delicious; Harry hopes Kreacher set aside a few for him.
“Okay,” says Harry. “What if Madame Dubois let you play a version of Exploding Snap that wouldn’t risk you losing all your fingers? Would you still want to go back to Madame Durand’s class?”
Teddy considers this question very carefully. “So I could have Exploding Snap and Madame Dubois?” he asks. At Harry’s nod, Teddy decides, “No,” and eats another strawberry.
Harry hums. “Well,” he says. “Do you want to clean up and play with Sneezy?”
“Yes,” Teddy shrieks, and he flies out of his chair.
By the time Andromeda appears to pick Teddy up, Harry is covered head-to-toe in a film of orange cotton, has developed a somewhat scratchy throat from repeated rehearsal of Teddy’s story-song book, and is ready to sleep for approximately 100 years.
“Bye, Mr Kreacher,” says Teddy, giving the old elf a hug. His skin turns a soft greyish green. “Thank you for my strawberry tea. I love you!”
Kreacher hugs him back gently, looking misty-eyed.
“Bye, Uncle Harry!” Harry kneels down to receive his own hug. “Next year, I’m going to be seven, and I’m going to learn Swedish! And then we’ll talk lots in Swedish, okay?”
“Thanks for the warning, but I hope to see you a few times before then,” says Harry drily.
Andromeda smirks at him. “I’ll send you a few of my old workbooks, shall I?”
Harry makes a face, but he nods. “Thanks.” He kisses Teddy’s hair, which has turned solid black and messy. “I love you,” he says.
“I love you, too, Uncle Harry!” says Teddy, and then he and his grandmother are gone.
Harry sighs and looks around. Absent Teddy’s inevitable mess and noise, Grimmauld Place suddenly seems much emptier.
“Back to the grind, I suppose,” says Harry.
Kreacher sneers. “Master can grind as Master likes,” he says. “Kreacher is goings to sleep.”
Harry sighs again. He’d love a nap, but he still needs to make dinner before Ginny arrives.
---
“Sorry, sorry,” says Harry as he opens the door. “I’m running a little late. I’ll just…” he trails off when he sees who it is that is standing on his front porch.
Tom smiles at him. “Ginerva couldn’t make it, I’m afraid. She’s looking into a rare bookstore that’s some distance away, and she couldn’t make it back in time. She’s hoping to meet you at lunch tomorrow, instead.”
Harry tries to remember if the note had specified who exactly would be attending dinner, but his brain doesn’t seem to be functioning at its normal speed. “That’s… okay,” he says. After a moment, he realises he’s still just standing there staring at Tom, and he breaks into motion, flustered. “Sorry, come on in.” He moves aside, holding the door open as Tom steps lightly into the house.
“I brought some butterbeer,” says Tom, lifting a paper bag. “Since you like it so much.”
“Oh, thanks! I can take your cloak?” He cringes at his own stupidity.
Tom only says, “That would be lovely, thank you,” and then he stands still and allows Harry to reach up and around his shoulders to undo the clasp and pull off the cloak. Tom is tall enough that Harry has to step in close to reach, and by the time Harry is able to pull away to hang up Tom’s cloak, he’s bright red.
“Well, uh, the family dining room is this way,” says Harry nervously. “Sorry, I’m usually on the informal side.”
Tom gives him an amused look. “I know.”
Harry makes a detour to the kitchen to grab some glasses and a bottle opener and carries them into the little dining room. When he sees the table, which has been laid out but remains foodless, he winces. “Right, dinner isn’t quite ready yet. We could sit in the parlor with the drinks if you like.”
“Anywhere is fine,” says Tom. He sets down the case of butterbeer on the credenza and gently lifts the bottle opener from Harry’s grasp to open one of the bottles.
Harry simply stands and watches him, mesmerised by the fluidity of his movements, until Tom raises an eyebrow and holds out the bottle, saying, “May I?”
Harry flushes and hurriedly puts down the glasses so that Tom can pour. As he does, the timer charm dings, and Harry excuses himself to go check on dinner.
Alone in the kitchen, Harry takes a moment to try to centre himself after he’s levitated dinner out of the oven.
It doesn’t work.
He’s still standing with his eyes closed, attempting to even his breath and slow his heart beat, when Tom asks, “Everything alright, love?” from approximately a metre away, and all of Harry’s hard work to calm himself is undone.
“Yes, I just—that is, I’m—I mean, I—”
Tom steps up to him and sets his hands on Harry’s hips. His head lowers, and Harry shivers, expecting a kiss. Instead, Tom rests his forehead against Harry’s, and they stand there together for several long moments, breathing together.
Finally, Harry pulls away. “Thank you,” he says, not meeting Tom’s eyes.
“Not at all, love,” says Tom, his fingers lingering on Harry until Harry has moved completely beyond his reach.
Harry plates the food in silence. He can feel Tom’s eyes on him, but the attention no longer feels as overwhelming as it did a moment ago, and he can feel himself relaxing.
“You know,” says Harry as they settle themselves at the table. Harry does not pull out Tom’s chair, nor does Tom pull out Harry’s, though he can see Tom eying his chair for a moment as though thinking about it. “Ginny used to call me that sometimes. Er, ‘love,’ I mean.”
“Did she?” asks Tom noncommittally. “This smells delicious, thank you.”
“Did she?” Harry repeats. “Or was that you?”
Tom pauses for a moment, his fork and knife suspended over his plate. “It’s hard to say, exactly,” he replies. “There was a period of time where we were almost the same person. For some time after we completed the ritual and separated, it was a struggle to remember who we were before we were us.” Tom hesitates, then adds, “And which pieces of our old selves we wished to reclaim.” He meets Harry’s eyes.
“So Ginny brought you back to get you out of her head?” asks Harry.
Tom wrinkles his nose. “We—Ginerva and I—created this body using some comparatively very benign rites that we found in a book on necromancy, and we did it to be separate again, to have our bodies to ourselves. It is nearly a falsehood to refer to what we did as ‘bringing me back’; as I am now, I am rather a new person altogether.”
Harry takes a moment to chew thoughtfully. “Lord Voldemort as rehabilitated Ginny Weasley,” he muses.
Tom smiles. “If you like. Though more technically, I fought against Voldemort just as you did.”
But how willingly? But Harry isn’t ready to run through that line of questioning just yet. Instead, he asks, “How did you come to share a body with Ginny?”
“You know the answer to that question,” says Tom, taking a sip of his butterbeer, his eyes fixed on Harry’s.
“Tell me anyway,” says Harry, though he thinks he really might.
“In our first year at Hogwarts,” says Tom, “we opened the Chamber of Secrets. We weren’t an us, back then, though. Ginerva wrote in my diary, and I used the emotion and soul that she poured into her words to possess her. I was going to drain her soul completely so that I could have enough power to regain my corporeal form. Then, you stopped me.”
“I destroyed your diary,” Harry says, not quite agreeing. “Dumbledore said that killed you.”
“It could have,” says Tom. “It would have. But by the time you stabbed my diary, I had already left it almost entirely. Without it to anchor me, I could no longer build a body to live in, and as I could not return to the destroyed diary, I was instead pulled toward my last anchor, my last vessel—Ginerva.”
“Where you lived for the next 11-odd years,” says Harry. “But who was in control?”
“She was,” says Tom. “At first, at least. I was horribly weakened by the magical backlash of the diary’s destruction. For some time, she was unaware that I was present. Then, I existed only as an… influence. Then, I was a voice. Then, I was increasingly able to push myself to the surface, sometimes even to take control. Sometimes we fought. Often we agreed. And eventually, it grew to be difficult to tell what emotions, what thoughts, what… desires,” the intensity of Tom’s eyes made Harry shiver, “came from whom.”
Harry licks his lips. “And now?” he asks.
“Now,” says Tom, his eyes tracing the contours of Harry’s face. “Now we have a better idea.”
Harry swallows. “Let’s open another bottle,” he says, standing.
As it turns out, an evening alone—a date—with Tom feels like being wrapped in a heavy, warm weight, like being held tightly and close. Whenever Tom approaches, whenever their hands touch, whenever their eyes meet, there’s an undercurrent in the air like an approaching storm, like lightning could strike at any moment.
It feels like it used to with Ginny, sometimes, though Harry is growing increasingly uncertain that it was ever really Ginny who brought out these feelings in him.
Tom leaves late in the evening without asking to be invited upstairs, and Harry, shamefully, is disappointed.
---
The next morning, Harry is once again greeted by a desk overflowing with memos.
The collection of information about necromancy being amassed by the aurors is impressive, but when it comes to identifying the MUTANT...
“Still nothing?” Harry frowns. Surely the confiscated books had been stolen with some specific purpose in mind. It doesn’t make sense to him that their known suspect hasn’t deviated in behaviour at all, not even to pick up necessary ingredients for a ritual or potion.
Harry taps his fingers against the top memo thoughtfully. He’s beginning to, grudgingly, doubt the veracity of the reports the senior aurors are sending him.
He scribbles onto a few memos and sends them flying off. Minutes later, Ron knocks on his open door, eyebrows raised.
Harry waves him in, along with Patil, Greengrass, and Nott.
Harry spells the door shut behind Nott and raises his silencing charms as the four settle into Harry’s haphazardly placed office chairs.
“What’s this about, then?” asks Ron.
Harry leans back and crosses his arms. “The longer this investigation goes on, the crazier my conspiracy theories get. You’re all due to be promoted to senior auror by the end of this month. I want you to talk me back down to Earth.”
“That’ll be the day,” says Nott, but it's not said in quite as unfriendly a tone as it might have been even a week ago.
Harry rolls his eyes at him.
Ron frowns at Harry. “I thought you said you already knew who the MUTANT is?”
The others stare at him in surprise.
“If you already know,” says Greengrass testily. “Then why are we going through all this work to find out?”
“Because I’m less concerned with who it is than with why they did it,” Harry answers mildly. “And I can’t make heads or tails of their motives, especially since, according to the other senior aurors, they don’t seem to be doing anything.”
“How are you so certain who it is?” asks Patil.
“We haven’t really used Priority 1 lockboxes since you lot have been out of training,” says Harry. “But they’re only unlockable by the person who locked them in the first place.”
“So you’re tracking the original investigation team?” Greengrass tilts her head to one side, eyes on Harry. “That’s… Jakobs, Everett, that idiot Burnes, and… Peters?”
“Minimally,” says Harry. “But most of the surveillance is focussed on the actual thief. See, the lockboxes record the magical signature of the people who access them. Everett sealed the lockboxes at 19:43, and Everett unlocked them at 02:57.”
Everyone stares at him.
“...Everett?” asks Greengrass. “I honestly expected Jakobs. Or Peters. Or even Burnes. Everett is a little…”
“Useless,” Ron supplies. “Don’t give me that look, Patil. You know it’s true.”
Harry nods. “My confusion that the thief is Everett was a large part of why I requested permission to delay the arrest in lieu of additional surveillance. The thought of Everett working alone on this… or anything, really… It’s mind-blowing.”
“So rather than allowing for the possibility that you’ve been wildly underestimating one of the juniors, you’ve decided to put a halt on all the normal functioning of the entire Auror Department so that we can go around investigating one of your pet theories?” snaps Patil.
Greengrass looks at her. “I can tell you’ve never worked with Everett before, Padma.”
Patil rolls her eyes. “He can’t possibly be that bad.”
“He really can,” says Ron.
“I can understand not knowing about the lockboxes,” says Nott. “After all, none of us did, either. But how did he not notice his magical signature being recorded when he sealed them? It’s a rather distinct sensation, and he would have felt it for each lockbox he sealed.”
Patil pauses. “That’s true,” she says hesitantly.
“At the risk of being repetitive,” says Ron, “he’s a total idiot.”
“But that level of magical insensitivity, from an auror?” says Nott.
“Are we certain that he didn’t notice?” asks Patil dubiously.
“I stuck a Doorbell Charm to him and pinged it every minute during the meeting we had right after the theft was discovered,” Harry volunteers.
“Potter!” says Patil, scandalised.
“A what?” asks Nott.
“It’s a silent signaling spell,” says Patil, radiating disapproval. “Very new; developed last year, I think. You cast a sort of receiver charm on someone, and then every time you activate the spell, their magic responds with a small pulse that’s undetectable to a third party. Everett’s magical aura must have been driving him crazy for the entire meeting!”
“Yeah, he didn’t even twitch,” says Harry.
Even Patil seems stunned by this revelation.
“So,” says Nott. “We either have Everett, who is an idiot, an incompetant, and so incredibly magically insensitive that he doesn’t sense a targeted signalling spell, or else we have Everett, the evil genius who has been fooling us all along.”
Ron makes a face. “And either way, we have Everett, confirmed thief of a bunch of books on necromancy.” He looks at Harry. “What has the surveillance found?”
“Absolutely bloody nothing,” says Harry.
Greengrass smirks at him. “And so now we finally get to your conspiracy theories. Do you want surveillance of the surveyors?”
Harry runs his hand through his hair. “Honestly, I don’t know. Apparently, Everett hasn’t met with anyone, hasn’t gone anywhere, hasn’t done anything weird. He’d need something to perform one of those rituals, wouldn’t he?”
“Unless it’s one of the rituals our original MUTANT was already prepared for,” Patil points out. “Or are we assuming that Everett is the original MUTANT?”
“I know he’s not,” says Harry. “I’m still checking out the original MUTANT, but all signs point to them being a minimal threat level. I’m more worried about what Everett could possibly be planning.”
“Have we been able to confirm whether the astrological conditions required for The Third Circle render it unfeasible?” asks Greengrass.
No one has.
“I myself have found references to the rite,” says Greengrass, frowning. “But nothing concrete in terms of how to actually conduct it. Assuming that the surveillance is accurate and Everett really hasn’t been purchasing anything useful, The Third Circle is by far the most concerning of the three rites he could conduct with the materials he has on hand.”
Ron’s eyes flicker to Harry. “What’s it for?” he asks Greengrass.
Greengrass’s lips twist. “Just what you’d expect from necromancy: it’s a resurrect-the-dead rite. All I know for sure is that it requires a human sacrifice to be drowned in some potion, and then I suppose the stars align, and an excess of chanting later, the body of the human sacrifice wakes with the mind and soul of whomever was resurrected. Really nasty stuff.”
“Eighteen is a little young to be sacrificing people to bring back your Hogwarts girlfriend,” says Ron. “So, sorry, but are we back to the Death Eater theory?”
“Everett has never really seemed like much of an extremist,” says Nott. “He’s a half blood, and to my knowledge, he’s on good terms with his muggle family.”
Harry feels a headache beginning to throb its way along his skull. He pinches the bridge of his nose. “I’ll ask Tom and see if he knows anything about the astrology required for The Third Circle,” he mutters absently.
There’s a moment of silence while everyone processes that statement, including Harry. He winces.
“Tom,” repeats Ron, staring at him. “You mean Fit Tom from the pub?”
Harry goes red.
“‘Fit Tom?’” asks Nott, smirking. “Weren’t you dating Weaslette?”
“We broke up,” says Harry.
“What?” exclaims Ron. “When was this?”
“Can we please save this for the pub and get back to talking about the case?” pleads Harry.
“Only if we’re coming to the pub, too,” says Greengrass, smirking at him. “After all, it sounds like Fit Tom is just the sort of person we should be interviewing. Expert on Dark rituals, is he?”
Harry hesitates.
“Harry!” says Ron, horrified.
“Well, you know,” says Harry vaguely. “He’s just landed in England, and there were different laws where he was before.” It’s even sort of true; after all, the realm of death has very different rules.
Different rules...
The four other aurors all try to talk at once, but Harry raises his hand to silence them. “Wait,” he says. “That just made me think of something.”
Everyone stares at him with varying levels of impatience, but they do all wait quietly.
Harry frowns off into space. “Part of why I’ve been struggling with this is that it’s just so hard to imagine what anyone could want so desperately to do with those books other than to raise Voldemort, like Ron said. Necromancy isn’t really well-suited to bringing back loved ones on a permanent basis; generally, a soul that’s been to the other side doesn’t want to end up back here, and so the only dead-raising you could be really confident in would be with a soul that has already been through the ringer and made its choice, so to speak.” Or, more accurately, with a soul that’s never left.
“Okay,” says Nott, staring at him intensely. “So assuming that Everett can read the fine-print, which is a big assumption as far as I’m concerned, then Everett’s goal is probably to revive the Dark Lord. The wizard who slaughtered and tortured people like Everett’s mother and cousins, during Everett’s lifetime. Are we really buying this?”
Harry tries not to think of sitting at the pub pressed into Tom’s side, of last night's date, sharing butterbeer and dinner and pleasant conversation, and how wonderful it had felt.
“My godson told me,” says Harry slowly, “that even though he loves his current teacher and hates his old teacher, he wants to switch classes just because he doesn’t like one of his new rules.”
“How adorable,” says Greengrass, voice dripping in sarcasm. “And we care because…”
“Because Everett doesn’t need to be a pureblood extremist to want to bring You Know Who back,” says Patil thoughtfully. “He doesn’t even need to love You Know Who or hate the current government. There just needs to be something he really, desperately wants that he can only conceivably have if he brings You Know Who back.”
Ron lets his head fall back in despair. “Can’t anything about this case be straightforward?”
Greengrass frowns suddenly. “You said surveillance hasn’t noticed anything out of the ordinary. What exactly have they done to confirm that? They’ve checked incoming and outgoing Floo calls? They’ve checked the records of his Gringotts account? They’ve checked Everett for hexes, potions, and the like?”
“They should have done,” says Harry. “That’s all standard.”
“Potter,” says Nott condescendingly. “There’s a reason we answer to you and not the other senior aurors. Merlin, there’s a reason they answer to you, too. I really wanted to believe that you raced up the greasy pole just because you’re the Chosen One, but you’re actually a brilliant auror. Things that seem standard to you aren’t necessarily standard to the rest of us.”
“Especially not the other senior aurors,” Ron agrees. “They’re bloody idiots.”
Harry winces. The truth is, until Harry had joined the aurors, a typical investigation had involved the application of a few tracing spells, a Priori Incantatem, and perhaps a truth spell. Harry solved a mountain of cold cases as a junior, and when questioned by his stunned superiors how he’d managed, he tried to explain that he’d simply needed to follow the—in one case literal—bloody footprints to the killer. Motives, physical evidence, money trails… The sort of sleuthing Harry remembers from muggle books and television simply didn’t seem to exist in wizarding Britain until Harry forcibly introduced it. “I am also rapidly coming to that conclusion,” Harry concedes. “Okay. I’ll let them continue the physical tailing. You lot get to do the actual investigating.”
“Joy,” says Greengrass tonelessly.
After the four aurors have filed out of his office, Harry reaches into his pocket and pulls out a vial of the Iriran Oje that he’d brewed the day before using Rolf’s recipe. It’ll probably be painfully overwhelming to test it out in the Ministry of Magic, but Harry doesn’t want to be obvious about having taken it when he meets Tom and Ginny.
If Rolf is right, the Iriran Oje should be able to show him anything he might have missed when he looked at Ginny before using the Hyggja At.
She’s behaving exactly like herself; he has no reason to believe she’s been influenced. And he does trust her. He just wants to be completely sure before he’s so far down this path with Tom that he can’t turn around again. If he isn’t already.
He gulps down the potion and winces as the world around him explodes into colour.
“Okay,” he says. “Time for lunch.”
Fandom: Harry Potter
Pairing/Characters: Tomarry, brief!Harry/Ginny, Harry & Ginny, Ginny & Tom, Harry & Hermione & Ron, Hermione/Ron, Severus Snape & Harry
Rating: M
Chapter Word Count: 4,803
Chapter Count: 4 / 6 | Chapter 1 | Chapter 2 | Chapter 3
Summary: AU: EWE; MoD!Harry. Harry Potter, saviour of magical Britain, has proved himself to be great at dying and coming back again. He’s just not as good at the bits in between coming back and dying again.
Notes:
“I understand that you probably have concerns at the speed this is going, sir,” Harry says carefully. “But there are so many unknowns that I really think this is the best course of action.”
Kingsley says, “I see. And what do you think?” he asks the other senior aurors.
They look at one another and shrug almost as one person. “I trust Potter’s judgement, sir,” is Mallory’s response. Bermann and Falvry nod in agreement.
Harry winces. Kingsley’s expression doesn’t change, but Harry knows that there is little Kingsley finds more irritating than a lack of opinion or autonomy among his senior staff.
“Very well,” says Kingsley. “Carry on with the covert investigation, then. But I expect that you’ll be ready to jump in as soon as the suspect makes their move.”
“Yes, sir,” Harry agrees. “That won’t be a problem.”
“Keep me informed,” is all Kingsley says, but Harry takes it for the dismissal it is.
“You say their routine hasn’t changed,” says Harry as he walks down the hall. “But maybe we should watch how they react during the rest of these former Death Eater interviews. Do they seem overeager or covetous or anything?”
“The default setting for all the juniors is overeager,” Bermann says drily. “But we’ll keep on a lookout for any unusual expressions.”
“Thanks,” says Harry.
When he gets back to his office, Ron is there waiting for him, sprawled in one of the visitor’s chairs.
“Please be here about work,” Harry pleads, shutting the door and raising a silencing charm just in case. “If we have to have the other conversation right now, I might actually die.”
Ron snorts. “Please, I have more class than that. My plan is to get you drunk first.”
Harry laughs, relaxed in a way that he’d never have been able to manage if this pseudo-confrontation had occurred before his conversation with Hermione. “Spiking my butterbeer?”
“With veritaserum, if necessary,” says Ron solemnly.
“Well, it’ll have to wait until tomorrow. I have Teddy this afternoon, and then Ginny's coming over.”
Ron sighs with theatrical resignation. “Fine, fine,” he says. “But no, I really am here about work. Greengrass was able to find a copy of one of the books on the list. It’s called Travels Through, and no I did not forget a word, that’s the whole title.”
“Anything hints in there about what they could be after?” asks Harry, perking up.
“Haven’t really gone through it yet, honestly,” Ron says, shrugging. “But Greengrass and Nott both found other books in their personal libraries, too. Not books that were on the list, but books on the same topic that might give us more information. What do you want us to do with them?”
“Where are the other titles we’ve found being held?” asks Harry.
“Right now, in Patil’s desk drawer, basically.”
Harry hums thoughtfully. “Why there?”
Ron raises his eyebrows at him. “Well, we know our thief can get into the ministry, can break into storerooms, and can unlock our lockboxes. The standard setup didn’t exactly seem wise.”
“Who has access to Patil’s office?”
“Just her. And after yesterday, she has more wards in there than Gringotts.” Ron watches Harry closely. “You know who it is, don’t you?”
Harry leans back in his chair. “The thief? Yeah, I have a pretty good idea.”
Ron eyes him for a long moment, then nods slowly. “Alright. So, the books?”
“Keep them in Patil’s desk for now,” says Harry. “And keep the juniors busy, but leave them out of all of the serious research.”
Ron sighs. “So it’s like that, then.” He grins. “At least we have plenty of them to spare.”
Harry laughs. “We do, at that.”
“Andromeda,” Harry chides. “You were supposed to bring me my Teddy, not whoever this is.”
“I’m Teddy!” the little boy squeals. “It’s me, Uncle Harry! It’s just my hair that’s different!”
“You?” Harry looks the little boy up and down, wearing an exaggerated thinking face. “Hmm, no, you can’t be my Teddy. When I last saw him, he was this tall,” he says, holding his hand so that it’s down two centimetres from the royal blue crown of Teddy’s head. “And you, well, you’re practically a giant. No, you’re certainly not my godson.”
“I am, I am! I’m growing so much. Grandma says I’m taller than my mum was!” says Teddy.
Harry looks at Andromeda, his lips twitching.
“Taller than your mum was at your age,” Andromeda clarifies.
Harry grins. “Are you ready to go, Teddy?” he asks the little boy.
“Yes! I packed my favourite story, my colouring book, my crayons, and my dragon.” Unprompted, Teddy pulls off his backpack, unzips it, and pulls out a stuffed dragon that seems larger than the inside of the backpack all on its own. “Cousin Draco gave him to me.”
“That’s nice of him,” says Harry. “Did you tell him thank you?”
Teddy does not acknowledge this question, having been distracted by the toy, which is now blowing little orange cotton ball flames. “His name is Sneezy,” he tells Harry.
Harry eyes the mess of cotton that’s building up on Andromeda’s clean stone flour. “I can see why,” he says. “Why don’t you put Sneezy back in the bag, and we’ll pull him out again when we get to Grimmauld Place.”
“Okay!” says Teddy. He stuffs the dragon back into his backpack and grabs Harry’s hand. “Bye, Grandma!”
“Goodbye, my darling,” says Andromeda.
“Uncle Harry,” says Teddy a moment later, when they’ve apparated in front of Harry’s door. “Mr Kreacher knows that I only eat strawberries now, right? I don’t want any of that green stuff for my tea.”
“I think I mentioned it,” says Harry as he opens the door and ushers Teddy inside.
The sight that greets Teddy when he makes a bee-line for the parlor has him stopping dead in the entranceway, his jaw dropping.
The child-sized table that’s been set up is covered in strawberries. There are little pink sandwiches that have been cut out into strawberry shapes and studded with seeds, little pink muffins that were baked in strawberry-shaped tins, and little pink tea cakes that are topped with sliced strawberries. Even the children’s tea service is painted with little strawberries on the side.
Kreacher adores Teddy.
Just by the table is an adult chair with a small end table by one arm. On this end table rests Harry’s own tea: one plain sandwich sliced into quarters and a steaming mug. It’s exactly what Harry would have wanted, but the comparison between his tea and Teddy’s forces him to bite back a grin.
Harry tucks a pink napkin into the collar of Teddy’s shirt, and then he sits back and let’s the boy’s chatter wash over him.
The feeling of peace is profound, and Harry thinks that, whatever Hermione believes, it’ll be some time before he’ll be ready to trade his time with his godson in exchange for a permanent residence beyond the Veil.
“And I asked Grandma if I could go back to Madame Durand’s class, but Grandma said I can’t.”
Harry blinks in surprise and takes advantage of Teddy’s enthusiastic chewing to interrupt. “But I thought you didn’t like Madame Durand! You were so excited to leave her class behind!”
“Yes, Madame Durand was just dreadful,” says Teddy, sounding exactly like a mini Andromeda. His hair flickers to a grey-streaked black, and his eyes go from honey-brown to silver. “I like Madame Dubois much better; elle est très gentille.”
“Then why do you want to go back to Madame Durand’s class?” asks Harry.
Teddy explains, “Madame Dubois doesn’t let us play Exploding Snap, because Charlotte got burned one time.”
“I see,” says Harry. “So even though you didn’t like anything else about Madame Durand, you want to go back to her class just so that you can play Exploding Snap in school?”
Teddy nods cheerfully and bites into another pink tea cake. They look delicious; Harry hopes Kreacher set aside a few for him.
“Okay,” says Harry. “What if Madame Dubois let you play a version of Exploding Snap that wouldn’t risk you losing all your fingers? Would you still want to go back to Madame Durand’s class?”
Teddy considers this question very carefully. “So I could have Exploding Snap and Madame Dubois?” he asks. At Harry’s nod, Teddy decides, “No,” and eats another strawberry.
Harry hums. “Well,” he says. “Do you want to clean up and play with Sneezy?”
“Yes,” Teddy shrieks, and he flies out of his chair.
By the time Andromeda appears to pick Teddy up, Harry is covered head-to-toe in a film of orange cotton, has developed a somewhat scratchy throat from repeated rehearsal of Teddy’s story-song book, and is ready to sleep for approximately 100 years.
“Bye, Mr Kreacher,” says Teddy, giving the old elf a hug. His skin turns a soft greyish green. “Thank you for my strawberry tea. I love you!”
Kreacher hugs him back gently, looking misty-eyed.
“Bye, Uncle Harry!” Harry kneels down to receive his own hug. “Next year, I’m going to be seven, and I’m going to learn Swedish! And then we’ll talk lots in Swedish, okay?”
“Thanks for the warning, but I hope to see you a few times before then,” says Harry drily.
Andromeda smirks at him. “I’ll send you a few of my old workbooks, shall I?”
Harry makes a face, but he nods. “Thanks.” He kisses Teddy’s hair, which has turned solid black and messy. “I love you,” he says.
“I love you, too, Uncle Harry!” says Teddy, and then he and his grandmother are gone.
Harry sighs and looks around. Absent Teddy’s inevitable mess and noise, Grimmauld Place suddenly seems much emptier.
“Back to the grind, I suppose,” says Harry.
Kreacher sneers. “Master can grind as Master likes,” he says. “Kreacher is goings to sleep.”
Harry sighs again. He’d love a nap, but he still needs to make dinner before Ginny arrives.
“Sorry, sorry,” says Harry as he opens the door. “I’m running a little late. I’ll just…” he trails off when he sees who it is that is standing on his front porch.
Tom smiles at him. “Ginerva couldn’t make it, I’m afraid. She’s looking into a rare bookstore that’s some distance away, and she couldn’t make it back in time. She’s hoping to meet you at lunch tomorrow, instead.”
Harry tries to remember if the note had specified who exactly would be attending dinner, but his brain doesn’t seem to be functioning at its normal speed. “That’s… okay,” he says. After a moment, he realises he’s still just standing there staring at Tom, and he breaks into motion, flustered. “Sorry, come on in.” He moves aside, holding the door open as Tom steps lightly into the house.
“I brought some butterbeer,” says Tom, lifting a paper bag. “Since you like it so much.”
“Oh, thanks! I can take your cloak?” He cringes at his own stupidity.
Tom only says, “That would be lovely, thank you,” and then he stands still and allows Harry to reach up and around his shoulders to undo the clasp and pull off the cloak. Tom is tall enough that Harry has to step in close to reach, and by the time Harry is able to pull away to hang up Tom’s cloak, he’s bright red.
“Well, uh, the family dining room is this way,” says Harry nervously. “Sorry, I’m usually on the informal side.”
Tom gives him an amused look. “I know.”
Harry makes a detour to the kitchen to grab some glasses and a bottle opener and carries them into the little dining room. When he sees the table, which has been laid out but remains foodless, he winces. “Right, dinner isn’t quite ready yet. We could sit in the parlor with the drinks if you like.”
“Anywhere is fine,” says Tom. He sets down the case of butterbeer on the credenza and gently lifts the bottle opener from Harry’s grasp to open one of the bottles.
Harry simply stands and watches him, mesmerised by the fluidity of his movements, until Tom raises an eyebrow and holds out the bottle, saying, “May I?”
Harry flushes and hurriedly puts down the glasses so that Tom can pour. As he does, the timer charm dings, and Harry excuses himself to go check on dinner.
Alone in the kitchen, Harry takes a moment to try to centre himself after he’s levitated dinner out of the oven.
It doesn’t work.
He’s still standing with his eyes closed, attempting to even his breath and slow his heart beat, when Tom asks, “Everything alright, love?” from approximately a metre away, and all of Harry’s hard work to calm himself is undone.
“Yes, I just—that is, I’m—I mean, I—”
Tom steps up to him and sets his hands on Harry’s hips. His head lowers, and Harry shivers, expecting a kiss. Instead, Tom rests his forehead against Harry’s, and they stand there together for several long moments, breathing together.
Finally, Harry pulls away. “Thank you,” he says, not meeting Tom’s eyes.
“Not at all, love,” says Tom, his fingers lingering on Harry until Harry has moved completely beyond his reach.
Harry plates the food in silence. He can feel Tom’s eyes on him, but the attention no longer feels as overwhelming as it did a moment ago, and he can feel himself relaxing.
“You know,” says Harry as they settle themselves at the table. Harry does not pull out Tom’s chair, nor does Tom pull out Harry’s, though he can see Tom eying his chair for a moment as though thinking about it. “Ginny used to call me that sometimes. Er, ‘love,’ I mean.”
“Did she?” asks Tom noncommittally. “This smells delicious, thank you.”
“Did she?” Harry repeats. “Or was that you?”
Tom pauses for a moment, his fork and knife suspended over his plate. “It’s hard to say, exactly,” he replies. “There was a period of time where we were almost the same person. For some time after we completed the ritual and separated, it was a struggle to remember who we were before we were us.” Tom hesitates, then adds, “And which pieces of our old selves we wished to reclaim.” He meets Harry’s eyes.
“So Ginny brought you back to get you out of her head?” asks Harry.
Tom wrinkles his nose. “We—Ginerva and I—created this body using some comparatively very benign rites that we found in a book on necromancy, and we did it to be separate again, to have our bodies to ourselves. It is nearly a falsehood to refer to what we did as ‘bringing me back’; as I am now, I am rather a new person altogether.”
Harry takes a moment to chew thoughtfully. “Lord Voldemort as rehabilitated Ginny Weasley,” he muses.
Tom smiles. “If you like. Though more technically, I fought against Voldemort just as you did.”
But how willingly? But Harry isn’t ready to run through that line of questioning just yet. Instead, he asks, “How did you come to share a body with Ginny?”
“You know the answer to that question,” says Tom, taking a sip of his butterbeer, his eyes fixed on Harry’s.
“Tell me anyway,” says Harry, though he thinks he really might.
“In our first year at Hogwarts,” says Tom, “we opened the Chamber of Secrets. We weren’t an us, back then, though. Ginerva wrote in my diary, and I used the emotion and soul that she poured into her words to possess her. I was going to drain her soul completely so that I could have enough power to regain my corporeal form. Then, you stopped me.”
“I destroyed your diary,” Harry says, not quite agreeing. “Dumbledore said that killed you.”
“It could have,” says Tom. “It would have. But by the time you stabbed my diary, I had already left it almost entirely. Without it to anchor me, I could no longer build a body to live in, and as I could not return to the destroyed diary, I was instead pulled toward my last anchor, my last vessel—Ginerva.”
“Where you lived for the next 11-odd years,” says Harry. “But who was in control?”
“She was,” says Tom. “At first, at least. I was horribly weakened by the magical backlash of the diary’s destruction. For some time, she was unaware that I was present. Then, I existed only as an… influence. Then, I was a voice. Then, I was increasingly able to push myself to the surface, sometimes even to take control. Sometimes we fought. Often we agreed. And eventually, it grew to be difficult to tell what emotions, what thoughts, what… desires,” the intensity of Tom’s eyes made Harry shiver, “came from whom.”
Harry licks his lips. “And now?” he asks.
“Now,” says Tom, his eyes tracing the contours of Harry’s face. “Now we have a better idea.”
Harry swallows. “Let’s open another bottle,” he says, standing.
As it turns out, an evening alone—a date—with Tom feels like being wrapped in a heavy, warm weight, like being held tightly and close. Whenever Tom approaches, whenever their hands touch, whenever their eyes meet, there’s an undercurrent in the air like an approaching storm, like lightning could strike at any moment.
It feels like it used to with Ginny, sometimes, though Harry is growing increasingly uncertain that it was ever really Ginny who brought out these feelings in him.
Tom leaves late in the evening without asking to be invited upstairs, and Harry, shamefully, is disappointed.
The next morning, Harry is once again greeted by a desk overflowing with memos.
The collection of information about necromancy being amassed by the aurors is impressive, but when it comes to identifying the MUTANT...
“Still nothing?” Harry frowns. Surely the confiscated books had been stolen with some specific purpose in mind. It doesn’t make sense to him that their known suspect hasn’t deviated in behaviour at all, not even to pick up necessary ingredients for a ritual or potion.
Harry taps his fingers against the top memo thoughtfully. He’s beginning to, grudgingly, doubt the veracity of the reports the senior aurors are sending him.
He scribbles onto a few memos and sends them flying off. Minutes later, Ron knocks on his open door, eyebrows raised.
Harry waves him in, along with Patil, Greengrass, and Nott.
Harry spells the door shut behind Nott and raises his silencing charms as the four settle into Harry’s haphazardly placed office chairs.
“What’s this about, then?” asks Ron.
Harry leans back and crosses his arms. “The longer this investigation goes on, the crazier my conspiracy theories get. You’re all due to be promoted to senior auror by the end of this month. I want you to talk me back down to Earth.”
“That’ll be the day,” says Nott, but it's not said in quite as unfriendly a tone as it might have been even a week ago.
Harry rolls his eyes at him.
Ron frowns at Harry. “I thought you said you already knew who the MUTANT is?”
The others stare at him in surprise.
“If you already know,” says Greengrass testily. “Then why are we going through all this work to find out?”
“Because I’m less concerned with who it is than with why they did it,” Harry answers mildly. “And I can’t make heads or tails of their motives, especially since, according to the other senior aurors, they don’t seem to be doing anything.”
“How are you so certain who it is?” asks Patil.
“We haven’t really used Priority 1 lockboxes since you lot have been out of training,” says Harry. “But they’re only unlockable by the person who locked them in the first place.”
“So you’re tracking the original investigation team?” Greengrass tilts her head to one side, eyes on Harry. “That’s… Jakobs, Everett, that idiot Burnes, and… Peters?”
“Minimally,” says Harry. “But most of the surveillance is focussed on the actual thief. See, the lockboxes record the magical signature of the people who access them. Everett sealed the lockboxes at 19:43, and Everett unlocked them at 02:57.”
Everyone stares at him.
“...Everett?” asks Greengrass. “I honestly expected Jakobs. Or Peters. Or even Burnes. Everett is a little…”
“Useless,” Ron supplies. “Don’t give me that look, Patil. You know it’s true.”
Harry nods. “My confusion that the thief is Everett was a large part of why I requested permission to delay the arrest in lieu of additional surveillance. The thought of Everett working alone on this… or anything, really… It’s mind-blowing.”
“So rather than allowing for the possibility that you’ve been wildly underestimating one of the juniors, you’ve decided to put a halt on all the normal functioning of the entire Auror Department so that we can go around investigating one of your pet theories?” snaps Patil.
Greengrass looks at her. “I can tell you’ve never worked with Everett before, Padma.”
Patil rolls her eyes. “He can’t possibly be that bad.”
“He really can,” says Ron.
“I can understand not knowing about the lockboxes,” says Nott. “After all, none of us did, either. But how did he not notice his magical signature being recorded when he sealed them? It’s a rather distinct sensation, and he would have felt it for each lockbox he sealed.”
Patil pauses. “That’s true,” she says hesitantly.
“At the risk of being repetitive,” says Ron, “he’s a total idiot.”
“But that level of magical insensitivity, from an auror?” says Nott.
“Are we certain that he didn’t notice?” asks Patil dubiously.
“I stuck a Doorbell Charm to him and pinged it every minute during the meeting we had right after the theft was discovered,” Harry volunteers.
“Potter!” says Patil, scandalised.
“A what?” asks Nott.
“It’s a silent signaling spell,” says Patil, radiating disapproval. “Very new; developed last year, I think. You cast a sort of receiver charm on someone, and then every time you activate the spell, their magic responds with a small pulse that’s undetectable to a third party. Everett’s magical aura must have been driving him crazy for the entire meeting!”
“Yeah, he didn’t even twitch,” says Harry.
Even Patil seems stunned by this revelation.
“So,” says Nott. “We either have Everett, who is an idiot, an incompetant, and so incredibly magically insensitive that he doesn’t sense a targeted signalling spell, or else we have Everett, the evil genius who has been fooling us all along.”
Ron makes a face. “And either way, we have Everett, confirmed thief of a bunch of books on necromancy.” He looks at Harry. “What has the surveillance found?”
“Absolutely bloody nothing,” says Harry.
Greengrass smirks at him. “And so now we finally get to your conspiracy theories. Do you want surveillance of the surveyors?”
Harry runs his hand through his hair. “Honestly, I don’t know. Apparently, Everett hasn’t met with anyone, hasn’t gone anywhere, hasn’t done anything weird. He’d need something to perform one of those rituals, wouldn’t he?”
“Unless it’s one of the rituals our original MUTANT was already prepared for,” Patil points out. “Or are we assuming that Everett is the original MUTANT?”
“I know he’s not,” says Harry. “I’m still checking out the original MUTANT, but all signs point to them being a minimal threat level. I’m more worried about what Everett could possibly be planning.”
“Have we been able to confirm whether the astrological conditions required for The Third Circle render it unfeasible?” asks Greengrass.
No one has.
“I myself have found references to the rite,” says Greengrass, frowning. “But nothing concrete in terms of how to actually conduct it. Assuming that the surveillance is accurate and Everett really hasn’t been purchasing anything useful, The Third Circle is by far the most concerning of the three rites he could conduct with the materials he has on hand.”
Ron’s eyes flicker to Harry. “What’s it for?” he asks Greengrass.
Greengrass’s lips twist. “Just what you’d expect from necromancy: it’s a resurrect-the-dead rite. All I know for sure is that it requires a human sacrifice to be drowned in some potion, and then I suppose the stars align, and an excess of chanting later, the body of the human sacrifice wakes with the mind and soul of whomever was resurrected. Really nasty stuff.”
“Eighteen is a little young to be sacrificing people to bring back your Hogwarts girlfriend,” says Ron. “So, sorry, but are we back to the Death Eater theory?”
“Everett has never really seemed like much of an extremist,” says Nott. “He’s a half blood, and to my knowledge, he’s on good terms with his muggle family.”
Harry feels a headache beginning to throb its way along his skull. He pinches the bridge of his nose. “I’ll ask Tom and see if he knows anything about the astrology required for The Third Circle,” he mutters absently.
There’s a moment of silence while everyone processes that statement, including Harry. He winces.
“Tom,” repeats Ron, staring at him. “You mean Fit Tom from the pub?”
Harry goes red.
“‘Fit Tom?’” asks Nott, smirking. “Weren’t you dating Weaslette?”
“We broke up,” says Harry.
“What?” exclaims Ron. “When was this?”
“Can we please save this for the pub and get back to talking about the case?” pleads Harry.
“Only if we’re coming to the pub, too,” says Greengrass, smirking at him. “After all, it sounds like Fit Tom is just the sort of person we should be interviewing. Expert on Dark rituals, is he?”
Harry hesitates.
“Harry!” says Ron, horrified.
“Well, you know,” says Harry vaguely. “He’s just landed in England, and there were different laws where he was before.” It’s even sort of true; after all, the realm of death has very different rules.
Different rules...
The four other aurors all try to talk at once, but Harry raises his hand to silence them. “Wait,” he says. “That just made me think of something.”
Everyone stares at him with varying levels of impatience, but they do all wait quietly.
Harry frowns off into space. “Part of why I’ve been struggling with this is that it’s just so hard to imagine what anyone could want so desperately to do with those books other than to raise Voldemort, like Ron said. Necromancy isn’t really well-suited to bringing back loved ones on a permanent basis; generally, a soul that’s been to the other side doesn’t want to end up back here, and so the only dead-raising you could be really confident in would be with a soul that has already been through the ringer and made its choice, so to speak.” Or, more accurately, with a soul that’s never left.
“Okay,” says Nott, staring at him intensely. “So assuming that Everett can read the fine-print, which is a big assumption as far as I’m concerned, then Everett’s goal is probably to revive the Dark Lord. The wizard who slaughtered and tortured people like Everett’s mother and cousins, during Everett’s lifetime. Are we really buying this?”
Harry tries not to think of sitting at the pub pressed into Tom’s side, of last night's date, sharing butterbeer and dinner and pleasant conversation, and how wonderful it had felt.
“My godson told me,” says Harry slowly, “that even though he loves his current teacher and hates his old teacher, he wants to switch classes just because he doesn’t like one of his new rules.”
“How adorable,” says Greengrass, voice dripping in sarcasm. “And we care because…”
“Because Everett doesn’t need to be a pureblood extremist to want to bring You Know Who back,” says Patil thoughtfully. “He doesn’t even need to love You Know Who or hate the current government. There just needs to be something he really, desperately wants that he can only conceivably have if he brings You Know Who back.”
Ron lets his head fall back in despair. “Can’t anything about this case be straightforward?”
Greengrass frowns suddenly. “You said surveillance hasn’t noticed anything out of the ordinary. What exactly have they done to confirm that? They’ve checked incoming and outgoing Floo calls? They’ve checked the records of his Gringotts account? They’ve checked Everett for hexes, potions, and the like?”
“They should have done,” says Harry. “That’s all standard.”
“Potter,” says Nott condescendingly. “There’s a reason we answer to you and not the other senior aurors. Merlin, there’s a reason they answer to you, too. I really wanted to believe that you raced up the greasy pole just because you’re the Chosen One, but you’re actually a brilliant auror. Things that seem standard to you aren’t necessarily standard to the rest of us.”
“Especially not the other senior aurors,” Ron agrees. “They’re bloody idiots.”
Harry winces. The truth is, until Harry had joined the aurors, a typical investigation had involved the application of a few tracing spells, a Priori Incantatem, and perhaps a truth spell. Harry solved a mountain of cold cases as a junior, and when questioned by his stunned superiors how he’d managed, he tried to explain that he’d simply needed to follow the—in one case literal—bloody footprints to the killer. Motives, physical evidence, money trails… The sort of sleuthing Harry remembers from muggle books and television simply didn’t seem to exist in wizarding Britain until Harry forcibly introduced it. “I am also rapidly coming to that conclusion,” Harry concedes. “Okay. I’ll let them continue the physical tailing. You lot get to do the actual investigating.”
“Joy,” says Greengrass tonelessly.
After the four aurors have filed out of his office, Harry reaches into his pocket and pulls out a vial of the Iriran Oje that he’d brewed the day before using Rolf’s recipe. It’ll probably be painfully overwhelming to test it out in the Ministry of Magic, but Harry doesn’t want to be obvious about having taken it when he meets Tom and Ginny.
If Rolf is right, the Iriran Oje should be able to show him anything he might have missed when he looked at Ginny before using the Hyggja At.
She’s behaving exactly like herself; he has no reason to believe she’s been influenced. And he does trust her. He just wants to be completely sure before he’s so far down this path with Tom that he can’t turn around again. If he isn’t already.
He gulps down the potion and winces as the world around him explodes into colour.
“Okay,” he says. “Time for lunch.”