Chapter 39: At Night
Grimmauld Place, October 5th 1997
There's a soft knock against the door.
Hermione slips into the room – my father's study – and peers at the darkness until she spots me, sitting on the floor behind the desk, my back against the wall. The exact place where I sat with my brother, for what feels like a lifetime ago.
Come to think of it, before the past couple of days, I don't even remember the last time I visited the room, as I have been rather engaged with other things lately. Still, it remains quite the same; perhaps with a lesser number of spiders and dust. Kreacher evidently has been keeping the place in order.
"Regulus?" Hermione asks quietly, and takes a couple of steps closer to me.
I turn my focus to her from the black curtains and the sliver of moonlight that creeps into the room between them.
She looks tired; with dark patches under her eyes, her shoulders sagging from the stress of the past few days.
"Is there any change?" I ask after clearing my throat. My voice is somewhat hoarse, after not using it in a while. Not after proving how utterly useless I have been in our efforts to heal Potter. To save him.
While I have been keeping Potter's unconscious form company, she – with Kreacher's assistance – has done most of it; treating the wounds the snake inflicted upon Potter.
The fucking snake.
Hermione sighs wearily. "Well, no. But it's not bad either. He's stable," she says and chews the inside of her cheek as she looks away. "He would be better if he was at St Mungo's."
"We both know that that's not going to happen, Hermione," I say with a warning in my voice.
It would be madness. The Death Eaters would take him before he could receive any care. And we already decided that this – Grimmauld Place – is the safest place for Potter.
"I know," she says sharply, her eyes moving across my face. "It's just…It has been over three days. And I fear that my skills are not enough…" She continues, her voice softer. Her expression more vulnerable.
I clench my jaw and look down. "I'm afraid you are our only hope now."
She takes a deep, shaky breath, and I wonder if I am putting too much pressure upon her. I look up, and see the exhaustion in her eyes, and how tired she is, from taking the initiative and carrying the burden.
"I'm sorry." I say quietly. "You should rest. I'll go to him."
Hermione watches me closely with a grim expression before giving me a small nod.
Upstairs, I find Potter, lying in my bed, partly tucked under the comforter; his right arm resting on top of it. Even though his eyes are closed and his skin is paler than I have ever seen it, he is still breathing. There're multiple diagnostic charms hovering over his frame, most of them white and glowing softly. Some of them light grey. The ones over his arm.
They were black some days ago.
My eyes move over his shoulder, and the spot that is covered with a large dressing.
I remember how he screamed, how he gasped in agony. The image of Potter writhing in pain haunts my mind every moment of every day. I haven't slept in a long time. And I suspect neither have Potter's friends.
I remember the blood. He was covered with it.
When we stumbled into the kitchen downstairs, grateful to be alive, to escape through the anti-Apparition wards with Potter's Portkey, I remember how lifeless he felt in my arms.
"No…" I gasp, taking a hold of Potter before he collapses to the floor. "No, no, no…" I grit out and press my hand firmly against the wound on his shoulder.
My fingers are quickly coated with warm blood.
"Help!" I yell, and Hermione and Ronald emerge closer with their wands out, both ready to fight, until they take in the situation. Until they see Potter hanging in my arms, unmoving.
Dread fills their expressions. It is quiet.
For a moment.
"Ron!" Hermione shrieks as she waves her wand to vanish Potter's robes and shirt before siphoning the blood away. With another flick, she conjures a dressing. "Summon the antidote from my bag!" She orders, and then, "And transfigure something where we can lay him down!".
Ronald nods. "On it," he breathes and transfigures a mattress from a nearby chair, before moving it as close to us as he can get.
I'm still standing, holding Potter up and pressing the wound. Watching his blood trickle down my wrist.
Hermione looks at me, her eyes wide with fear. "Let's put him down first. And…and then, take you hand off and when I say so, press the dressing against the wound," she says tightly, and I almost miss the way her voice is shaking.
I give her a quick nod, and carefully lower Potter down with the help of Ronald. I remove my hand. Blood is oozing from the wound, pooling into the mattress under him.
"H-Holy shit," Ronald gasps, his voice wavering.
"Now!" Hermione yells after she's cleaned the wound, and then the dressing is hovering inches away from Potter's shoulder.
I quickly push it against the wound, while Hermione takes a vial from Ronald. Her hands are shaking badly now. "H-How we are going to make him drink this?" She asks, panic in her eyes.
I exchange a grim look with them. "We need to force him into consciousness."
"Godric," Hermione whispers, her eyes wide with fear. But still, she lifts her wand, which wavers in her grasp. "Hold him still," She says to Ronald and me, before aiming her wand at Potter's chest.
"Rennervate!"
Silence.
And then – Potter's eyes blink slowly open. There's a moment of hopefulness in the air, but then…then…his face distorts with anguish.
Potter lets out a gut-wrenching scream, before gasping for breath. The next moment, his eyes roll to the back of his head, and his entire body starts to tremble, to shudder violently.
"Merlin, he's seizing!" Hermione shrieks, "Ron, help me move him to his side!"
"Don't let go," She adds to me as they move Potter's jerking body and adjust him.
The shaking stops eventually, and then we shuffle him back to his original position. He's unconscious again.
"Bloody hell," Ronald growls, "How can we get him to drink it?" He asks, dread in his voice.
He needs the antidote now, or we might lose him. And I have no fucking idea what to do, if he cannot stay conscious long enough to drink it. I'm holding my hands against the deadly wound, while my mind stays blank, without a single thought; a healing spell or a potion, or…any way to help Potter.
I have never felt this powerless.
"We could…" Hermione mutters, worrying her lip in thought.
"We could what?" I ask sharply, knowing that we need to act soon. The dressing is slowly filling with blood. "Add another one," I tell her, and Hermione frowns at me before she realises what I meant, and quickly flicks her wand to conjure another dressing.
"Don't remove the other, just put this over it," she instructs and I do as she says.
"What can we do, Hermione?" Ronald asks, holding the antidote – which we are not even sure will work.
Hermione chews the inside of her cheek. "We could do it the Muggle way," She says, and hastily continues when both Ronald and I give her exasperated looks, "With an IV injection."
"A what?" Ronald asks desperately, right as I ask, "Can you do it?"
Hermione looks unsure, but nods. "I think I can. I've read about it, and seen it done…"
"Then get to it," I tell her, and watch with wariness as she conjures a small device with a long needle.
"W-What the bleeding hell is that?" Ronald exclaims as Hermione inspects the device first, before flicking her wand and filling it with the antidote.
Hermione gives us a frightened look. "I'm going to administer the antidote intravenously," and then rolls her eyes at Ronald, when he merely continues to look bemused.
"I will push this needle into Harry's vein and then force the antidote into his bloodstream."
Ronald looks nauseated at the thought. And I would probably feel both nauseous and curious, if I was not consumed by the pressing need to get Potter healed.
"Do it," I say with a nod, when Hermione looks at me and Ronald unsurely.
She takes in a deep breath, and peers at Potter's arm, as if searching for his veins. After what feels like a long time, she presses the needle through his skin, and then…pushes the antidote into him.
"And now," Hermione says unsteadily, "we will see if the antidote worked."
She casts a diagnostic spell at Potter's shoulder and there is a tense silence. A thick, black mist appears above my fingers, surrounding Potter's arm and chest, reaching all the way to his stomach.
Hermione lets out a choked sob while Ronald gasps in shock.
The air leaves my lungs, and I grit my teeth together to force the feeling of dizziness away. "We need to brew an antidote. Use his blood – use the wound."
Hermione gives me a panicked nod, and starts to move up to gather the essentials, when Ronald's gasp makes her flinch and stop in her tracks.
"Look!" He says hastily, pointing at the black mist over Potter's chest.
It is decreasing.
"The antidote worked!" Hermione shrieks, disbelief and relief flickering on her face.
I nod slowly, watching how the mist continues to shrink, and eventually, focus only on the immediate area of the wound.
But it doesn't disappear.
Hermione clears her throat. "It…seems to be working, at least. I think – I think we need to research it to make sure. If it is not working…we don't have much time to figure out another solution."
"Kreacher," I grunt, and the elf appears close to us.
"Master Regulus called?"
"Bring Miss Granger everything she needs."
Kreacher bows, and turns to Hermione, who starts to explain what exactly she is searching for. Kreacher disappears and returns only moments later, with a stack of books appearing next to Hermione.
Her hands are shaking again. "Let's take care of the wound, first," She says with a tight jaw, and starts casting healing charms at Potter's shoulder.
I blink away the memory, focusing on him. Potter's here, now. He's not dead, not yet. The antidote worked. After two days and eight injections by Muggle method, the thick, black mist slowly turned into pale grey.
I let out a weary sigh and walk up to the bed, before taking a seat on the edge of it. He looks rather fragile, like this. And I know he is not. He is stronger than I originally thought, even after he's lost so much.
Potter is determined. A survivor. And his magic, it is powerful. Overwhelming.
I place my hand against his forearm, and close my eyes. I feel the steady hum of his magic, with all its capability, underneath. Some of it, I suspect, is not originally his. Some of it is darker, coursing inside him like a growing storm.
And even though I've known for a long time that Potter is the one who has the power to destroy the Dark Lord, now I really understand it. All this power and potential, hidden behind a pair of smudged glasses and a messy mop of hair.
I wonder if he is aware of what he carries inside?
Many witches and wizards are not. Some are; those who have practiced reaching into their magic, feeling it. Much of it is similar to what one does when casting spells wandlessly. As the wand is merely a way to control the magic inside us – it is still there without the wand; accessible, readable.
I was always better at this than my brother, detecting magic and interpreting its small nuances like this. I suppose my brother lacked the patience. He said it was a waste of time.
Much like Potter.
"This is a waste of time," he growls after I exit carefully from his mind, and after both of us collapse to lie on the bed, where we were sitting on only moments before.
Another half an hour spent inside his head, watching memories from his childhood – something that manages to rouse both vindictiveness and pity inside me. Something that makes us both feeling sour afterwards. Potter detests visiting those memories, and I, on the other hand…I am consumed by the memories of my own childhood, the family I lost.
I watch him quietly. "You have made progress."
Potter turns towards me, and props himself up on his elbow. He gives me a long look. There's a hint of sadness in his green eyes.
"What is it?" I ask, mirroring his position. Wondering what else is in his mind, what he has succeeded hiding from me.
And he has been successful. There are many thoughts and memories inside his head, that I have no access to. And I desperately want to know what they are. What is he hiding from me?
His expression turns into a hesitant one. Potter swallows hard and his eyes move down, between us. Redness tinges his cheeks. "I'm – are we – do you not want –" He mumbles, and then sighs, his shoulders sagging with defeat.
I feel the sudden need to hold him, to reassure him, and I grab his hand. Potter's eyes snap back to mine, watching me intently.
"I have not changed my mind," I tell him, and Potter gives me a mixed look of relief and exasperation.
"Then – I mean –" He mumbles, his voice trailing off.
I look away, a small frown forming between my brows, heaviness in my stomach. "I have…not been quite right, lately." I say slowly, thinking of all the nights spent in the drawing room, of all the conversations I have tried to avoid.
Potter sighs softly. "I know. But…don't go away," He says quietly, pleadingly.
I quickly move my gaze back to him, and there's so much vulnerability and hurt in his eyes that I want to shake him and promise him that I will never leave him.
But I won't. Because of who we are, and the situation we are in. I cannot make promises like that when it is not certain that we will survive this war.
"I'm here now." I say, and try to say everything else through my eyes.
He nods slowly, and then there's a flicker of a smile.
I watch him carefully, and then pull him gently closer. Potter follows without hesitance, and closes the distance between us, and between our lips.
And as I hear a small sigh against my lips, I can only think; how in Circe was I able to forget how good this is? How right it feels?
The room is still quiet.
It has been over three days.
I let my shoulders sag as I lean my elbows against my knees, pressing the heels of my palms against my eyes.
Why did we go there?
I should've known better. We should've known better.
We could have lost everything. We still can. If Potter doesn't make it, then…who will defeat him?
If Potter doesn't make it, then…am I able to move on?
I take in a deep breath and let it out.
When have I not lived in a constant fear?
There is movement on the bed.
My head whips at Potter's direction, just in time to see him blinking slowly at the canopy of the bed. There's a broad patch of sunlight on the bed, warming up Potter's upper chest.
"Harry?" I whisper, part of me not able to accept the possibility of him waking up after this excruciating wait. And part of me, is filling with gratefulness and lightness. I quickly move to sit closer to him.
Potter's eyes flicker all over the room, and a flash of panic appears into them. "Where'm I?" Potter mumbles, panic in his voice. "Wha'ppened?"
He starts to lift himself up from the bed but I push him down carefully. "Harry, calm down. You were hurt, but you're okay now," I tell him quickly, and once Potter goes slack under me, I quickly check the diagnostic charms. They look the same. Which is both relieving and disappointing.
"How do you feel?" I ask, my eyes moving across his face, trying to detect any hint of pain.
Potter closes his eyes, and swallows with difficulty. "Like a giant snake…tried to eat me," he says, his voice croaky.
My mouth twitches at the same time as a small smile appears on his lips. "Bet you'd laugh at that," he mumbles, his breathing slowing down, becoming deeper.
He's asleep.
I let out a long breath, filled with anxiety and dread and distress, swallowing down all the feelings that threaten to overpower me.
He's going to be fine.
Grimmauld Place, October 9th 1997
I stare at the glowing embers of the fire and clench my jaw against the discomfort in my shoulder, that has changed from a dull ache into a sharply throbbing pain.
"So, all of it – was for nothing. Voldemort knows about Grindelwald. We only gave him more answers." I grunt, feeling frustrated and bitter as I turn to face the others.
We went there – into Godric's Hollow – to only endanger and hurt ourselves. Bathilda was long gone, and all we found, was the snake. Nagini. And the mere thought of the creature brings shivers down my spine, making anxiety press against my chest.
Most of my nights have been filled with dreams of Nagini emerging from inside Bathilda, leaving me drenched with cold sweat and shaking in fear before Regulus's voice has breached through the terrifying visions, banishing them – only until the following night.
"Harry, perhaps we should continue this tomorrow," Hermione says softly, eyeing me with a hesitant look.
Ron clears his throat and frowns at me. "Yeah, mate, you don't look so good. You ought to rest…"
I bristle at their comments. Regulus doesn't say anything, but merely watches me with that blank stare, evidently agreeing with the others. After all, he has seen what I've become at nights. A shivering mess.
I have been up for some days, and they still insist treating me like I'm…delicate. As if it would be too burdensome for me to discuss the events of that night. The night we all almost died.
What I've learned so far, is that after the snake bit me, we were surrounded. Our escape with the Portkey Hermione, Regulus and Ron used, happened only seconds before the Death Eaters managed to get through the blockade Ron had created. And he was there. Voldemort. I saw him. I saw him gliding along the streets, towards Bathilda's house.
And I felt him. His rage.
I felt him when he destroyed the village, and everything that was in it. All those people, buildings…the statue and my parents' graves probably too.
Hermione told me that most likely what was held up by magic, survived, along with the people in those buildings. But we all know that the village was not only inhabited by wizarding people.
And that's not all of it. I've been remembering some of Voldemort's thoughts from that night, after I woke up from the three-day unconsciousness. Voldemort knows. He's knows who the thief is – he saw the picture at Bathilda's house, right after he tore the village apart. He was…very happy.
Anger rises inside me.
"I don't want to rest! I want to finish him! I – I want to make him pay!" I yell, and pant, as my head starts to spin. I stop pacing in front of the fireplace and steady myself at the mantel, closing my eyes and trying to focus.
"Harry?" Regulus mutters quietly, evidently watching me with a worried look. Like they all are.
I take in deep breaths, and the dizzying feeling passes.
"Harry?" Hermione says too, and stands up from the armchair nearest to me. "Sit down for a moment."
I grit my teeth and turn towards the others. "I'm fine."
I'm not. I can feel how all the colour has left from my face, and how cold sweat trickles down my neck. My whole arm is in a constant pain.
Hermione narrows her eyes at me. "You are overwhelming yourself. Sit. Now." She says harshly, crossing her arms against her chest.
I stare at the others darkly for a moment, knowing that I'm being pointlessly stubborn. And I really fucking need to rest. "Fine." I huff and shuffle closer to her, and then slump down in the armchair. "Happy?" I mutter sourly.
Hermione arches a brow at me. "Not in the slightest. But that will do for now. At least as long as you are being a bull-headed prat."
I'm about to argue, but then Ron claps his hands together, a strained smile on his face. "Now that that's sorted... Did you see anything else? Anyone we know? What you-know-who is up to?" He asks hastily.
I frown at my friend and chew the inside of my cheek, my mind running over every memory and every feeling that I know was Voldemort's. After Godric's Hollow, all I knew was darkness and anger – evidently the days I was unconscious. And then I woke up four days ago, and many things have come back to me. The moment of thrill, when Voldemort finally identified the thief - the one that stole from Gregorovitch. How livid he was when his followers didn't capture us. How he took his anger out on the village, destroying most of it, suffocating it with his rage.
I haven't really seen anyone, as everything has been blurred by pain and anguish. I know he tortured people; most likely his followers. I tried to close my mind, to push his consciousness away, to make the pain in my head stop. And after using all my strength, I did it. It was overbearing, it made me weak, it made me lose consciousness, but I closed the connection. It doesn't make any sense, as I am still healing from the attack – and I reckon I might be slowing down my healing process by doing so – but, perhaps…perhaps that is the reason I succeeded. My mind protected me, and has protected me, whenever I've been at my weakest.
When I was overcome by grief, after losing Sirius, I pushed Voldemort out then. He took over my mind at the Ministry and I pushed him out. I closed my mind.
"I dunno," I mutter and frown at the coffee table. "I…I don't remember," I tell Ron, not in the mood to explain my accomplishments, when there's a growing ache in my head and a steady throb on my arm. I shift in my chair and let out a hiss as a sharp pain flares down from my shoulder.
"Kreacher," Regulus says stiffly.
Kreacher pops at his feet. "Master Regulus summoned?" Kreacher asks politely.
"Bring Potter a healing potion. The earlier dose seems to have worn off already."
Kreacher bows low before I can say anything, and then pops back seconds after, this time right in front of me. The elf pushes a vial of yellow potion into my hands and gives me a mild glower. "Master is wise to obey Master Regulus."
And then it disapparates with a crack.
Ron hides a quiet snort in a cough while Hermione simply lifts her brows at me, urging me to take the potion.
I swallow the annoyance I feel for being patronised and down the potion in one gulp. And sigh with content.
"Better?" Hermione asks with a small smile.
I give her a weary nod. "Yeah."
There's a short silence.
"So…what do you reckon happens next? Now that you-know-who knows it was Grindelwald who stole from Gregorovitch?" Ron asks with a contemplative voice.
I sigh and rub the bridge of my nose, my glasses going askew.
"We don't even know what it was," Hermione says simply, "Nor if it is actually something we need to know."
"If the Dark Lord is searching for something, and deems it important, it would be beneficial for us to be aware of what it is," Regulus says quietly.
I stare at the table, a deep frown between my brows. What if it is something, we could use against him? What if it is an object he plans to make a Horcrux? Could he even create a new one?
What if it is the Elder wand?
Hermione huffs, bringing me back from my thoughts. "And what? We'd go after it?" She asks incredulously. "Jump into another reckless trip and risk our lives, knowing that he can't be killed before we've destroyed his safeguards?"
Regulus arches a brow at Hermione's outburst.
"I just think that we should focus on Horcruxes now," she continues, her voice softer.
Regulus and Ron both nod in agreement.
"Harry?" Hermione says gently, catching my eye as I watch them, my mind still partly going over the possibilities.
I know Voldemort will try to find Grindelwald – if he even is alive anymore. I know exactly how obsessed he is about the…the thing he is searching for. But as he does that, we could take an advantage of it. If he is searching for something and occupying himself with it, we could make a move against him.
If we only knew where his Horcruxes were.
Bloody hell.
"I think we need to reconsider our very last option," I say, giving Hermione a pointed look. "We need to look into his mind," I continue steadily. "Next time he opens the connection, we'll be ready."
And how will we even do that, now that I've managed to close the connection, is another matter I need to figure out.
Based on the silence, I know the others do not object the plan. They know it is our only chance. My eyes move from Ron's anxious frown and Hermione's strained expression to Regulus, who gives me a scrutinising look, concern mingling in his dark grey eyes.
"I promise, I'll heal myself before we do it," I tell him, and don't miss the way Regulus's throat bobs as he swallows hard.
I remember vividly how wrecked he has been after our Occlumency sessions, sometimes even more than I have been. I wonder how difficult it will be for him, to navigate in my mind, to slip into Voldemort's mind without getting caught? And how dangerous it will be?
I wonder if Voldemort could hurt him through me?