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THIRTY-FOUR: Question and Answer

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The next morning found Harry, Ron and Hermione in a small knot, discussing Harry’s latest findings in low, excited voices.

Ron looked startled when he learned about Harry’s supposed absence, but then he began nodding, slowly at first and then with greater certainty. "Wow, I feel a right idiot," he said feelingly. "Those stupid letters – I should’ve known."

"Huh?" Harry muttered.

"Well, they were all about mowing the lawn and painting the shed and rubbish like that," Ron replied. "You know, it made me really worry about you. Why write about stuff like that at all? But if you were somewhere else, trying to convince me you were at the Dursleys’... well, that’s exactly what you’d write."

"Are you saying I was lying to you?" Harry demanded.

"It’s not like it hasn’t happened before, mate," Ron informed him, playing with his bangers and mash. "We had to do much the same thing summer before last, didn’t we, me and Hermione?"

Hermione nodded. "That’s right. You probably thought it would be easier to just avoid mentioning where you were at all. Chances are, it was Order business."

Harry digested this along with his breakfast.

He was halfway through his biscuit when Hedwig swept in and landed on the table, upsetting his pumpkin juice. She wore a bit of lined notebook paper and a harried expression.

Placating Hedwig with bits of crispy bacon, he untied the note and read it; then, he showed it to Ron and Hermione.

Harry couldn’t hold back a spark of amusement at the fact that Dudley had stuck to the proper form of a letter, from the right salutation to the right indentation as he closed; he also found himself picturing the look on his Uncle Vernon’s face when he realized that, not only had his son received a letter from ‘his sort’, but Dudley actually planned to reply.

At the same time, his stomach was sinking, even as Ron nodded as though they had already figured on this. Maybe Ron had, but Harry was finding the fact that he had a big chunk of memory missing to be more than a little off-putting. When he focused on his memories of the summer, he realized that he should have figured long ago how false they were. They were like Muggle photographs, without any depth or detail, a lot like his letters had been to Ron.

In contrast, he recalled weeding in his Aunt’s garden, chatting with Dudley, and studying with a fervor with incredible clarity. Why hadn’t he noticed that the rest of the summer was so muzzy in comparison?

"So, you’ve been, what, Obliviated?" Ron wondered.

"I expect so," Harry replied carefully.

"That’s not the only option, Ron," Hermione reminded him. "I’m certain that there are dozens of other ways to explain this."

"Dozens?" Ron repeated dubiously.

"Yes, quite," she said, her tone sharp. "For one, you could be ordered not to recall if you were under the Imperius Curse."

"Dumbledore said he hadn’t Imperio’d me," Harry said morosely.

"Dumbledore?.!" Hermione screeched, and Harry realized he’d somehow managed to leave that out.

Once he finished explaining, the two glanced at one another, then at him.

"Snape," Ron said. "It has to be."

"If you’d seen how absolutely furious he was, you wouldn’t even be able to suggest that," Harry said. "He said he really trusted Dumbledore, and I think maybe now he doesn’t trust anybody."

Hermione’s eyes slid up to the staff table, then back to Harry. "That would be... unfortunate," she said.

"You’ve got a gift for understatement, has anyone ever told you that?" Ron wondered.

"He’s so very necessary," she said, and then her voice lowered. "To the war effort, I mean. If he were to decide that he was being treated unfairly by both sides... I wonder what would happen?"

Harry considered this. "It’s no good, Hermione. He’s stuck, either way. It’s not like he can disappear. One or both sides would catch up to him eventually, and either way things would be unpleasant for him. Even our side would eviscerate him for turning turncoat twice. So he’s got to choose the lesser of two evils, and Dumbledore is certainly that, in any case."

Hermione examined him with wide eyes.

"You’ve been hanging ‘round Draco Malfoy too much," Ron muttered.

"I’m still right, though, aren’t I?" Harry replied.

"Hell," Ron swore, eyes trailing up to the staff table as well.

Harry wished suddenly that the two of them had a bit more Slytherin in them. It was, by now, blatantly obvious that they were discussing one of the staff. Anyone with half a brain would know, and anyone clever would have narrowed it down to Snape, Lupin, McGonagall, or Dumbledore already.

"If we can’t trust Dumbledore, who can we trust?" Ron demanded softly.

"I still do trust him," Harry said slowly. "Sort of. He wants the same thing I want – a safe wizarding world. I really do believe that about him." He paused. "The trouble is, that’s probably what Voldemort wants as well."

Hermione gasped and Ron stared at him. "What?.!" they demanded in unison, then turned to stare at one another.

"From his point of view, I mean," Harry continued. "He probably thinks he’s killing off Muggles to ensure the safety of wizards. I’m sure he’s got a utopian picture someplace in the back of his twisted mind."

"Ugh, I like to avoid looking at things from V-Volde- you know, from his point of view," Ron supplied.

"But if Dumbledore and Voldemort have the same basic intention," Harry realized, "then it’s their means you have to examine." He sighed, slumping. "I don’t like their methods in either case, but Dumbledore at least doesn’t go off killing randomly. He only manipulates, at least most of the time, which isn’t as bad."

"I feel very old suddenly," Hermione said in a small voice. "All the same, we can’t expect Dumbledore to be perfect. He could very well be – be making a mistake," she said, dawning realization in her voice.

Harry wondered if it was the first time Hermione had ever thought this about a teacher. Then he recalled Gilderoy Lockhart.

"So in other words," Ron cut in, "we’re back where we started. Finding out where you were, what you were doing, with whom, and why."

"Ah, square one," Harry said.

"It’s as good a place to start as any," Hermione replied. She frowned. "I hope you haven’t been neglecting your lesson plans, though, Harry," she tacked on. "I know that you’ve a great deal on your plate right now - " The bushy-haired girl glared at him when Harry’s gaze inadvertently flickered down to his food. "The full moon is in a matter of days, however, and-"

"I know," Harry said, his stomach doing a strange flip. "Two days to be exact. I’ve got it under control, Hermione. Don’t worry so much, okay?" He glared angrily at his black-eyed peas in butter.

Truth be told, he was doing enough worrying for both of them. Harry was beginning to get a case of nerves that rivaled what he’d experienced right before his very first Quidditch game. Back when he’d been in charge of the D.A., when it came time to talk, he gave Hermione free rein; and when it came time to instruct in more than theory, she graciously stepped back. Harry and Hermione together were one excellent teacher. Harry wouldn’t lay a knut on either one of their classroom skills alone. Plus, Hermione was right... he wasn’t finished with those lesson plans - not by a long shot.

During Potions, he managed to keep his focus, handing Hermione the newt’s eyes and slicing the burdock root just so for Yolande. But in Charms, he found himself subconsciously planning his first lesson for the first-years, which he was finding by far the most difficult to structure. He began to see Wingardium leviosa and Accio charms behind his closed lids as he lay down to sleep.

That night, Harry dreamed he looked out the window to view the full moon. If the moon was full, that meant his classes had started today! Why hadn’t anybody told him? He rushed down to see - he wasn’t certain whether he was looking for Dumbledore or Snape or McGonagall - but he needed to apologize to someone, and fast. Hogwarts was empty, however, save a wink of green light that sped in front of Harry, illuminating his steps. There was no other sound, save the faint thuds of his footfalls against stone...

...no... Harry could hear a noise. Somewhere, faint from distance, he could hear one whispered word. Harry sped forward, following the speck of green, but it was too fast for him to follow... the sound grew sharper, then fell out of focus like a radio station going in and out of tune. The sound whispered and the whisper rose into a wind that circled around Harry, tossing his cloak and lifting his hair, the sound was in his clothes and rushing past his ears, and finally he could discern it:

He woke with a strangled gasp, sweat clinging to his face and breathing heavy as if he’d just had a dream of Voldemort. But he hadn’t.

Slowly, he realized he hadn’t all term.

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Draco’s letter arrived the next morning at breakfast, the school owl literally dropping it into Harry’s meal and, screeching, taking off for the Owlery. Harry was left with the distinct impression that it had gone to a great deal of trouble to deliver his letter and was none too pleased about it.Potter,

It’s incredible that you haven’t learned the simple charm that makes a document visible only to whom you wish; although, given your background, I suppose it is understandable. The charm is Hitomi Veritas, and I’m certain that Flitwick would be all too happy to show you the motion; or, barring that, Professor Snape. I have disguised this missive so that anyone else will see something perfectly innocuous.

So, you’ve stopped hopping when Dumbledore says ‘toad’. Congratulations on finding a spark of independent individuality buried beneath all of that Gryffindor righteousness. It may be arriving a bit late, but savor the touch of teenage rebellion that seems to have infected you. Merlin knows how long it shall last.

As for ends and means, I must admit that I was playing Devil’s Advocate, as I so often do, with Miss Granger. You will find my real answer wholly Slytherin. It all depends – on both the ends and the means. There are some depths to which one ought never to sink, no matter how glorious the cause. There are some causes which are so very imperative that they swamp such insignificant things as inconvenient mores and moralities.

Yes, I am quite fully aware that these are the rationales which have fueled – dare I say it? – zealots – for centuries. I am also aware, as perhaps you are not, that perfectly normal witches and wizards also apply shifting morality in everyday life. It’s quite all right to take a knut you find sitting in the street – but morally corrupt to take a giant bag of galleons without inquiring as to whom has lost the small fortune. The only difference is obviously a matter of degree. So you see, it is not only Slytherin sons of Death Eaters who hold this seemingly unique set of shifting principles.

Your sweet little story is most interesting. It is about being betrayed, at least on the surface; and so at first I thought it was written by you, about the two of us, a rather unsubtle hint that you thought me abominable. Then I read more carefully. The story is also about a secret so large it cannot be shared. And if and when it is shared – the end of the world. That hardly fits your being Slytherin, no matter how melodramatic or self-important you may be feeling at the time.

Although I am now aware of the fact that you did not write the tale, it puzzles me, in a way, that you didn’t. After all, the ends and the means is the central question to this story. No matter what the secret was, could it have ever been something terrible enough to justify Morn Brother’s response?

The story has the feel of an allegory describing an actual event, and, if so, was probably written by someone far more melodramatic than you; because the writer is likely either Morn Brother – or Evening Brother himself.

If the latter, then Evening Brother’s death is a symbolic one. Being a wizard, he was, perhaps, cast from the wizarding world, his supporters flung from him – or his powers were destroyed. There are quiet, unsettling rumors of a spell which does this to a wizard, and perhaps this was done to Evening Brother.

Before learning of Evening Brother’s secret, and subsequently dispatching him, Morn Brother sends away the children. His children, so the story says – but they could easily be ‘his’ in some way other than by blood. The author mentions that Morn Brother is teaching them their letters, and so he is likely a teacher or a scholar rather than a father. A place where wizarding children are taught... Morn Brother and Evening Brother had a school.

Finally, there are four children when the usual, archetypical number is three or sometimes seven. The story is most likely about Hogwarts.

Leaving the rest to Granger,

Draco Malfoy

"Well?" Hermione inquired, frowning. "Did he come up with anything interesting?"

"It’s not much," Harry said. "Only just about the most brilliant thing I’ve ever seen."

Hermione stared at him blankly, along with Ron, until he began to read the letter’s contents aloud, in quiet, excited tones, skipping over certain truths, such as his place in Slytherin and the fact that Draco had named his father as a Death Eater on paper.

When it was over, Hermione had gone rigid; her lips were parted and her eyes gazed far, far away.

"Oh... my," she breathed, standing suddenly. "Listen, uhm, can you cover for me in Potions? I need – library – now."

Harry and Ron knew there was no stopping Hermione when she got like this, but they both stared at her in amazement.

"Sorry," Ron said, leaning forward in his seat. "For some reason I thought I heard you say you were considering skiving off Potions."

"Oh, I’ll go now and take some books out and bring them with me, I suppose..." she replied distractedly.

"Good," Ron said. He turned to Harry as Hermione dashed off. "For a minute I thought someone had Polyjuiced her."

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