Author’s Notes: Thank you for your kind reviews! Sorry about having two terrible cliffhangers in a row, but it worked best that way. And you’re back now, aren’t you? ;-)
This chapter’s title is from the Bee Gee’s song (call it a guilty pleasure of mine - !). You know what they say; no one admits to actually owning a Bee Gees album, but they sold billions of copies to someone . . . !
CHAPTER 12 - Spirits Having Flown
“Not dead? Of course, he’s dead! We just got back from the bloody funeral!” Draco bellowed indignantly at Moaning Myrtle.
“Draco,” she asked him as gently as possible, “did you actually see the body? I mean, was the casket opened or closed?”
“It was closed. So no, we didn’t ‘see the body’,” he replied nastily.
“But if it was closed -- is it possible he might not have been in it at all?” she wondered aloud. Then she voiced what they were all thinking: “Why would they have a funeral for someone who’s not dead?”
“Why, indeed?” Draco snarled, his fingers curling and uncurling as if he might choke the next person who happened by. One staff member, in particular . . . he thought vengefully.
Distracted, Myrtle continued, “Do you suppose . . that could be why the casket was closed? Because it was actually -- empty?”
Shouting at her as if she were a small, stupid child, he growled, “Gods, you’re a ninny -- I told you before, it was a suicide!” That was all she could take of his rudeness; she burst into tears, wailing loudly and fully earning her nickname. He groaned in frustration, “Ugh, not that! Now, Myrtle, please—”
“Draco!” Ginny chided. “She was only trying to help!”
“Yes, I know that,” he snapped at her. Then he turned to Myrtle and said, “Look, I’m sorry . . You just threw me off when you said—” But this time, she would not be so easily appeased. She had gone beyond the veil for him, and this was the thanks she got? For what seemed like an eternity to Draco, but could have only have been a minute or two, she ranted about how unkind he was and how cruel he could be. She simply would not be placated this time, no matter how he pleaded with her.
Then Ginny got an idea that she thought might help to calm her down. As Myrtle’s anguished cries continued unabated, she approached her cautiously. Weighing each word carefully, she said, “Myrtle . . I know . . . how you died.”
Draco’s mouth fell open, shocked that Ginny thought that now was the best possible time to bring that up. He began in a threatening whisper, “Weasley—”
But the ghost’s babbling did cease instantly. “You do?” she asked hopefully. “How? Tell me, please. I am definitely ready to leave Hogwarts.”
Draco hissed, “Not yet! I still need to ask her a few more questions!”
“I don’t think she can help us any further, Draco,” she replied in a flat tone. “She’s helped us all she can. We need to look elsewhere.”
He ignored Myrtle’s ecstatic giggles, saying to Ginny, “You’re right, Weasley. And I’m not going to stand around and wonder about it. I’m going straight to the source!” He turned and ran down the hallway as fast as he could, despite the limited energy that now remained at his disposal. The day had been an emotional roller coaster. Running as if the answer would vanish if he didn’t hurry up and find it, he thought for a brief moment, Damn, I really shouldn’t have exhausted myself back in the gardens . . . but hell, it was definitely worth it!
Ginny groaned then started to chase after him, demanding, “Malfoy, where are you going?”
“To the hospital wing!” he yelled back over his shoulder.
Myrtle, who didn’t see the urgency or the connection, asked, “Why, are you sick?” Apparently, her mood had lightened tremendously and she had forgiven him for insulting her a few minutes ago.
“No!” he replied as he pressed on determinedly. “Madam Pomfrey -- that slag -- she was the one who pronounced him dead! I never have liked her. I’m going to give that lying bitch a piece of my mind then find out what the hell this is all about!”
“Oh, please be rational, Draco!” Ginny shouted as she trailed further and further behind. He was now about twenty feet ahead of her, but he would not be deterred form his mission.
Ginny stopped running and blew out a frustrated breath; she was tired to following him around the school in a futile attempt to keep him in check. If he wants to yell at the school’s Healer, he can do that on his own, she decided. Sighing, she said, “Oh, Myrtle. I swear, I’m either going to kill him, or I think I’m falling in love with the prat.”
The ghost laughed, “Yes, even though he can be a royal pain the arse, there is something rather -- endearing about him, isn’t there? Thank goodness he’s not like his father.”
“What?!” Ginny was shocked and turned around to face her. “You knew his father?”
“Well,” Myrtle confessed shyly, “I had sort of a crush on him, if you must know. He was quite a few years younger than me -- he didn’t even start at Hogwarts until long after I was dead -- but he was easily as handsome as his son. I’m rather embarrassed to admit it, considering how hateful he was -- constantly called me four-eyes, big ugly crybaby, and whatnot.”
Ginny snorted, muttering softly, “Hmph, that’s nothing. He only got worse when he left Hogwarts.” She thought about something for a second or two then asked, “So . . a ghost could have a crush on the living?”
Myrtle nodded in reply. “Oh, yes. I was enamored of Harry Potter for years. Up until last year, in fact, when he got so -- godawful weird.”
“I know exactly what you mean, Myrtle,” the redhead agreed with a faint smile. The conversation was giving Ginny an idea. “Funny you should mention a ghost having a crush on someone who is alive. In my first year at Hogwarts, I myself had sort of a crush on someone who was . . no longer . . . real.” At Myrtle’s bewildered look, Ginny stopped and bit her lip, thinking to herself, This is not starting off well.
She tried again. “Myrtle, do you remember who was Head Boy the last year you were alive?”
“Yes, vaguely. A boy named . . . somebody -- Riddle, wasn’t it?”
“Yes. Tom Riddle,” Ginny confirmed dryly. “Tom turned out to be a very bad wizard. He no longer goes by his name; today, he is called ‘The Dark Lord’ or ‘You-Know-Who’. People are afraid to say his name.” She stopped walking then said seriously, “He was the boy I had a crush on. Aside from Harry, of course.”
Myrtle was stunned. She gasped, “Tom Riddle became The Dark Lord? And you liked him?!”
Ginny clarified, “Well, I didn’t know that at the time! Tom was -- nice. He listened to me.”
Yet the ghost was still skeptical. “Besides, if he went to school here when I did, and now he’s ‘You-Know-Who’, how did you ever happen to have a crush on him?”
“Well, it wasn’t him, actually. It was a memory of his 16-year-old self.” Ginny sighed, “It’s a long, complicated story. I’m sure you remember that book I threw at you?” Myrtle nodded. “Well, I wasn’t throwing at anyone. It was Tom’s enchanted diary, and I just wanted to be rid of it.” She paused then admitted, “He was controlling me with it. Since then, I’ve learned a lot about his days when he was Head Boy. He had some pretty horrible notions, even when he was a student . . and he wasn’t afraid to act on them.”
“How so?” asked the ghost, unsure where this was going.
“Well, when he was in school, he hatched a plot to rid Hogwarts of what he callously called ‘mudbloods’ -- people with nonmagic parents. He hated them all.”
Appalled, Myrtle breathed, “No! You mean, he didn’t like people like me, just because of who we were? Was that why I died -- because of what I was?” Ginny nodded. “But that’s just stupid.”
“I know, but he believed, like Salazar Slytherin did, that people who did not have magic parents should not be allowed to attend Hogwarts. The ironic thing is, his father was a muggle, so he wasn’t even a pureblood himself. Anyway, to eliminate the ‘mudbloods’, he used dark magic to create and control a horrible creature called a Basilisk. It’s a gigantic snake that can kill, just by looking at a person -- with its large, yellow eyes.”
Myrtle stared at her, wide-eyed and a horrified expression on her face. The dawn of reasoning took its place as she uttered: “Oh my God, Ginny,” she said slowly, “was I one of its victims?”
“Yes, you were its first and last . . . until four years ago, when the past, most terribly, most regrettably—” she choked, “very nearly repeated itself. Fortunately, no one was killed the second time it happened, when he was using me to do his . . . dirty work . . through the diary.”
But Myrtle was no longer listening. She had a sort of peaceful, dreamy look on her face. Suddenly, the hallway was filled with all of the other Hogwarts ghosts: the Bloody Baron, the Gray Lady, Sir Nicholas de Mimsey Porpington, Peeves, the Fat Friar, and a few Ginny didn’t recognize. They were floating around, all of them looking at Moaning Myrtle.
Just then, Draco came storming back down the hallway. He started to tell her something as he caught his breath, but then he muttered, “What the fucking hell—”
“Shhh,” Ginny whispered. “I just told Myrtle how she died. I told her everything. All about the Basilisk, Tom Riddle . . everything.”
“Who? Oh, never mind.” He tutted, “I should have known you’d pull a stunt like that.” She glared at him, but he ignored it and went on with what he was going to say. “Well, I didn’t find Madam Pomfrey, so I guess I’ll go see if I can find my Head of House—”
But when the Gray Lady swirled directly in front of him, he found himself distracted by . . . whatever macabre ritual the ghosts were performing. “What are they doing?” he asked, annoyed yet mesmerized. “Are they -- dancing?”
The other ghosts were indeed circling around Moaning Myrtle in what looked rather like a morbid farewell dance, with all the participants hovering just inches above the ground. A few minutes after they started, something odd began to happen to the ghost of honor: She appeared to have regained most of her color. Soon she was practically . . solid, and no longer in drab grays and dirty whites: she looked -- almost human, lifelike even. Her cheeks were radiant, flush with the excitement one gets when preparing to take a trip they have looked forward to for a long time. In turn, her fellow ghosts said their goodbyes.
“Godspeed, child,” said the Fat Friar, his voice jolly.
“Farewell, my dear,” Sir Nicholas added in his strangely warm yet haughty, high-brow tone. He looked as though he admired Myrtle’s courage; if he could still cry, Ginny felt sure he would have.
The Gray Lady reached out to her and whispered softly, “Safe journey, sweet girl.”
The Bloody Baron said nothing. He nodded once to her and lifted his hat as a sign of respect, while Peeves blew her his biggest raspberry ever. “Goodbye, Peeves,” Myrtle laughed, “I’ll miss you, too.” The obnoxious specter’s grin spread across his entire face, and the other ghosts applauded Moaning Myrtle as she prepared to take her final journey. Some of them were sad that she was leaving, others were jealous, but all of them were very happy for her as she went on to the next great adventure. Content with her decision, she sighed and spoke the last words she would ever say to anyone on Earth:
“Thank you, Ginny.”
Blinding streaks of light, starting at her waistline, spread slowly through her corporeal body. Her outer shell gradually evaporated, one fraction at a time. At first, Ginny suspected that it must have been painful, but Myrtle only smiled more and more broadly. As the vanishing girl became evermore ethereal, she glanced heavenward and said excitedly, “Oh, hello, Cedric! How lovely it is to see you again! My, death has been good to you . . . ”
And she was gone. No signs remained that she had ever been there, and the only physical evidence was not exactly solid. As if to give themselves some form of proof that this hadn’t just been some bizarre, shared illusion, both Draco and Ginny grasped for an explanation. Each of them was feeling the after effects of gazing at the sun or some other brilliantly bright light for too long, and for a short while, it was as if they were both drawn to it, still staring into it, and could not look away, as it held them under its spell.
But there was something more . . something intangible and strangely surreal, but with definite substance, that pervaded their consciousness. Neither one could ever quite fully describe it; as she would eventually find out, Harry, Ron, and Hermione had felt it too. The Gryffindor trio, along with Ginny, later deduced that current Hogwarts residents whom Myrtle’s afterlife had touched -- had felt her pass through them as she moved on to the next realm. It was a mystifying experience that the four Gryffs spent a great deal of time analyzing and discussing in the coming days, Hermione being the most outspoken one on the matter.
After Myrtle’s departure, all of the ghosts left the hallway, and the two students prepared to return to their houses. They rounded the next corner, nearly bowling over Professor Snape. Draco made eye contact with him and decided that regardless of the bizarre experience he had just had, the man might be able to explain exactly what had happened to Blaise Zabini. Not caring if he got a detention for his impertinence, he narrowed his eyes and spoke testily, “Why, Professor Snape, just the man I’m looking for—”
“Good, Mr. Malfoy, I need to speak with you as well. You too, Miss Weasley.”
“Me?” squeaked Ginny. “Wh—”
Professor Snape turned on his heel and walked away abruptly, expecting the students to follow him obediently. When she didn’t, Draco grabbed her hand forcefully and dragged her along. They reached their apparent destination, and Professor Snape gave the password; the repulsive gargoyle in front of them moved and the wall opened, revealing a spiral staircase. After they stepped onto the platform, the entire staircase moved in a slow, upward motion. Draco’s first thought was, Man, I gotta get me one of these! As the staircase made its final rotation, Professor Snape commented in a low voice, “Some other staff members are already here. I beg you not to jump to any conclusions; please let them explain themselves first.”
The young Slytherin looked around and thought cynically, If Father could see me now, he would be so furious, he would spit blood! The walls of Professor Dumbledore’s office were covered with portraits of aged wizard and witches, many of whom were asleep and others who were merely pretending to be. There were also a number of oddities and trinkets almost as strange and bizarre as the old man himself. And speaking of strange, he had three guests who were already seated: Madam Pomfrey, Argus Filch, and a woman that neither Ginny nor Draco had ever seen before. Impulsively, he felt like lunging out at the Healer, but Ginny saw him flinch and dissuaded him, grabbing his arm and giving him a cross look.
Albus Dumbledore’s face lit up in a genuine smile. He conjured up three more fluffy armchairs for the new arrivals and greeted them. “Welcome, Mr. Malfoy, Miss Weasley. I thank you all or coming this evening. Severus, if you would be so kind as to explain to these good young people why they are here,” he prompted.
“Certainly, sir.” Professor Snape said smoothly, “I need to relay to you some information about what you have been through recently, Moaning Myrtle’s departure aside. I must speak to you about your friend, Blaise Zabini.”
“Well?” Draco demanded. The fury was evident in his gray eyes as his pale eyebrows raised, urging the man to continue.
He did so, sighing, “The funeral today -- it was a sham. Blaise is fine.”
Draco snapped irritably, “Yes, so we heard. Moaning Myrtle told us that his spirit should be here, but it’s not.” He was having difficulty remaining calm but forced himself not to yell at the professors. “And yet, with all due respect, sir -- how could he not be? I saw him, I touched him, there was no pulse,” he insisted roughly.
Then he stood up and pointed a finger at Madam Pomfrey, accusing, “She said so: He poisoned himself.” He collapsed into his chair, his mind spinning from all that had transpired since they had arrived back at the school. He laughed, a soft, maniacal sound; confused tears threatened to spill over as he said, “If he’s not dead, then of course, I’d be overjoyed . . . But how could that be?”
Taking over for the Potions Master, Professor Dumbledore said, “Mr. Malfoy, I assure you that your friend is in perfect health. I understand your being angry, and I am very sorry we had to make you believe otherwise. It was for his safety, which brings us to why you are here now.” Draco could see in his eyes that the decision had pained him, but he didn’t really care about the old man’s present discomfort.
He clearly deserves it, was his opinion.
The Headmaster went on, “As Professor Snape mentioned, we need to inform you of what has happened and why. Madame Pomfrey?”
“Yes, sir,” she replied. She gave Draco a weak smile and said, “Mr. Zabini’s suicide was staged to convince those who wished to harm him that they could not. It was all carefully planned. Surely you have heard of the powerful sleeping potion, the Draught of Living Death? It is made from root of asphodel and wormwood—”
“Of course, I’ve heard of it!” Draco groused. “Every first-year has!”
Madam Pomfrey pursed her lips and continued, “Professor Snape brewed it for him, and Blaise took it to appear to have died. He was in a very deep sleep and has since revived. He is in America, living safely with the Elliots in their new city. Only their Secret Keeper knows where they are.”
Draco’s expression was one of shock, hurt, betrayal, and relief, all rolled into one. “So Myrtle was right,” he said to himself as his tears flowed freely. “Blaise is alive.”
Madame Pomfrey winced and went on, “Mr. Malfoy, believe me when I say that we are all very sorry to put you through such grief, but our plan had to be completely foolproof.” He looked directly in her eyes, as if he were studying them for any signs of lying. For the briefest of moments, he thought he saw something in them but couldn’t name it . . perhaps a lost memory of some event long since forgotten, or maybe a time when she had kindly mended his Quidditch injuries. If there ever was such a time -- but frankly, he couldn’t recall one. In his fury, the thought fled as he quickly swept it from his mind.
“Why?!” he shouted angrily. “How? I thought—” he stuttered, “it just seemed -- I mean, right after the mirror had arrived, he -- he must have seen an image of someone else, indicating Marianne had been with another -- but how do you explain all that? Was that part of your bloody plan?!” They all looked at one another, as if debating who should answer the belligerent teen’s questions, and how.
Before anyone could answer, another thought occurred to him. “Did Blaise know what the potion was?” His brain was reeling. This was too much for him to comprehend.
Madam Pomfrey sighed and looked to Professor Dumbledore for support. He gave her an understanding smile, silently agreeing to take over for her, saying, “Yes, Mr. Malfoy, your friend knew.”
“That lying, bloody bastard!” he gasped. “He said he was going home!”
The Headmaster continued, “When Blaise learned what some of the students were planning, he went straight to his Head of House for advice. We decided it was best to plan for an eventual attempt on his life. If he believed his enemies were about to strike, or put him in harm’s way, he would take the Draught. Did you not notice him wearing it on a chain around his neck for the past few days?”
Draco was in shock and did not answer the man’s question. “What are you saying? Did Blaise suspect the mirror was part of their plot? That it could be from -- someone other than his grandmother?”
“He knew she would certainly have the means to procure one, so no, he was not fully certain at the time. Naturally, he was curious, having such strong feelings for Miss Elliot. But she sent him letters all the time; he got owls from her practically every day, so of course he doubted what he saw. His suspicions were correct; her feelings for him had not waned. So despite your well-intentioned advice,” he said, looking Draco directly in the eye, “that was why he never could break it off with her.”
He was still perplexed. “Then why did he go through with it? Knowing the potion was false, assuming the mirror may have been from Nott or even Grant, why did he ever -- look into it . . ?” He was trying unsuccessfully to wrap his mind around what he was hearing. “Wait . . . can Fidelity Mirrors be Charmed to lie?” he asked, looking around the room.
Professor Dumbledore answered. “No, they cannot. Although the more common variety of enchanted mirrors, for example, Vanity Mirrors, can, Fidelity Mirrors have anti-charm spells built in -- presumably so a wife cannot keep a hidden lover and therefore compromise the purity of the bloodline.”
Professor Snape took over, “However, it is possible to Charm an ordinary mirror to behave like an enchanted one, giving it some code spell to activate it. But this can only be done by a very experienced witch or wizard; it is far beyond the skill of any student, and we do not suspect any of the instructors. Ever since Professor Quirrell and Barty Crouch, Jr., attempted to deceive us, all Hogwarts staff members have been beyond reproach. The Headmaster sees to that personally now.”
Draco asked irritably, “Then how can we know for sure? Is it possible that Blaise was duped into this?”
“There is a way to determine whether it is a true Fidelity Mirror,” Professor Dumbledore said. Holding the same mirror that had been on Blaise’s bed, he asked, “Mr. Malfoy, would you be so kind as to break this?” Draco scoffed, utterly confused where he was going with this. He grabbed the mirror and threw at as hard as he could at the wall, taking out some of his frustrations on the inanimate object. Shards of glass flew in all directions. Several of the portraits’ subjects jumped, a few of them cursed, and those who actually were asleep were now fully awake.
“Now, Miss Weasley, would you please repair the mirror?”
Unsure why he requested this, she pointed her wand at it and said casually, “Reparo.” The mirror was fully restored to its original state, and Professor Dumbledore smiled with satisfaction.
Draco sighed impatiently, “Exactly what does that prove?”
“Everything, Mr. Malfoy. Once shattered, Fidelity Mirrors cannot be repaired, which is part of what makes them so extremely rare,” the Headmaster replied. “It was the fact that they are so rare that made me suspect that this one could very well be a fake -- that, coupled with the fact that Blaise made no secret of his girlfriend’s name. It would have been easy for a qualified person to add a code spell. Try it, Mr. Malfoy.”
He snorted, “But I don’t have a girlfriend,” casting a petulant glance at Ginny, who squirmed uncomfortably in her seat.
Shrugging, the old wizard prompted, “Say the name of any of the girls you’ve dated, preferably one who has a new boyfriend by now.”
“All right. Hannah,” he said. His own image remained in the mirror. “You’re right; it’s definitely a fake. That trollop wasn’t even faithful while we were dating.”
By now, Ginny was becoming extremely agitated by what she was hearing. She was beginning to think that the professors and the professors had made a grave error in judgment. Feeling empathy for Draco, she stood up and interjected, “Excuse me, sirs and madams, what could have been so bloody important that all this secrecy was necessary? Do you not know what pure anguish this boy has gone through for the past several days?” Her remarks made Draco feel strangely proud, and a slight smile graced his lips.
The other woman in the office, who had not said so much as one word, now rose and walked over to Ginny. A look of recognition in her eyes, she stared into the girl’s face and said, “I told them to.”
Ginny, who was at a complete loss as to who this woman was and why these educated men and women would listen to her, shrugged her shoulders and shook her head. “So?” blurted from her lips.
Then out of the clear blue, the woman spoke to her cryptically. “Guinevere, I forgive you. Now will both of you please forgive them?” Draco looked more confused than he had when he first learned of Blaise’s deception.
“Begging your pardon, ma’am, but who the hell are you?” Ginny lashed out.
“My name is Jane, but they call me Mrs. Norris.”
Ginny felt her knees practically give way as the day that had begun strangely became even more so. That was an answer she wasn’t expecting; in fact, it raised far more questions had already been answered. She exhaled, asking, “What did you say? You’re who?”
Mr. Filch arose and said proudly, “This here is my lovely Mrs. Norris, my Jane. Ain’t she beautiful?” Jane fairly glowed as she turned to look on him.
Ginny, obviously not wanting to appear insane, asked hesitantly, “Mrs. Norris, as in -- your pet cat . . ?” When Filch did not argue the point, Draco spoke up.
“Hang on, wait just a minute -- now, this is even wilder than the incredible tale she told me earlier today,” he said, pointing at Ginny. She merely glared at him in irritation.
Professor Dumbledore explained, “Yes, Mrs. Norris is indeed a cat -- most of the time. I’m afraid it was due to a spell gone badly that is not completely reversible.” He sighed heavily. “She had always been intrigued by Head Girl Minerva McGonagall and her ability to change into a cat. When Argus and Jane were younger, he had agreed to help her with her Animagus training. Unfortunately, neither of them was ready to take on this extremely difficult task. As they were both so young, the attempt was destined to fail.
“Since the accident, it has been Argus’s incredible guilt that has not allowed him to perform any magic. When it became apparent that to continue his magical training would be futile, he was added to the staff so that they could stay together.”
Draco shook his head and asked bluntly, “So are you . . is she . . . human now? Or does it have to do with the moon cycle, like for a werewolf?”
Professor Dumbledore said, “Not exactly, but something like that, as well as a few highly complex and specialized spells. Over the years, I have been able to temporarily restore her back to her human form for a short while, sometimes for as long as two hours. Given the unusual nature of her case, well -- naturally, we do not advertise who she is. And all of our students, and most of the staff, are blissfully unaware that Mr. Filch is not actually a squib. For all intents and purposes, he has a self-imposed magical block. Only he himself can remove it,” he said with a significant look to the caretaker, who glanced down at the floor uncomfortably.
Ginny interjected, “But Mrs. Norris, you said that you told them to fake Blaise’s suicide. And aren’t we here to learn why this had to be done?”
“That’s true, I did. I saw you and Mr. Malfoy that night, standing outside the room that houses the Mirror of Erised. I listened to the voices within the room, and that was when I overheard the other students’ plans. I knew Mr. Grant would stop at nothing to hurt Mr. Zabini. He said not to kill him, but I could sense that he didn’t mean it. He just didn’t want any witnesses who could testify against him.”
As an afterthought, she added cattily, “By the way, Mr. Malfoy, your feet smell atrocious.”
Ginny snickered then asked, “But -- but if you knew we were there, why didn’t you tell Mr. Filch when you were restored to your human form? Not that I want an extra detention, mind you,” she added quickly.
“Unlike the boys at the Mirror, you two appeared to be no threat. I could sense your fear; they had none, and I could see that one boy was already unconscious. I ignored you and led Argus to them instead. He certainly didn’t expect to be Stunned; that young boy, Nott, certainly has stones. Not much for brains, just like his father, but he has very little fear. Thus, the plot to save Blaise Zabini was devised. When he approached Professor Snape, we knew we had to act quickly.”
She turned to Draco and asked, “Mr. Malfoy, didn’t your friend reassure you several times that he would be all right? Professors Dumbledore and Snape insisted on that. He couldn’t come out and tell you, for his safety and your own, but he was told to emphasize it clearly so you would not worry so.”
Draco was ecstatic. It was far too much to hope for: Blaise, alive and well, living in America with his girlfriend and her family. He had to fight to keep his tears from falling again, and Ginny instinctively took him into her arms. He hugged her fiercely and wept with joy into her soft, ginger hair. She stroked his hair tenderly and cooed gentle words of comfort and reassurance.
After several minutes, he looked up and wiped his eyes. “So what happens now?”
“Now,” Professor Snape said, “comes the difficult part. This hurts me more than I can say. You both need to have your memories modified.”
“What?!!” Draco shouted. “You can’t take this from me! This is Blaise we’re talking about -- he’s the closest thing I have to a brother!”
Professor Snape argued, “Believe me when I say it’s for his safety. And yours. Your close friendship is exactly the reason you were not chosen to be his Secret Keeper.”
Ginny asked harshly, “So Draco and I will believe that Blaise is -- really dead?” The she sobbed quietly, “This is so wrong. How could you?”
“No, Miss Weasley,” Professor Dumbledore assured her. “You will both know in your hearts that he is all right, just as you know now. What you cannot have any memory of is the circumstances -- not until you see him again. When your eyes meet his, the memories will be restored to you.” Neither of the students said anything, and the aged wizard added, “We don’t want you to fall victim to these misguided individuals and thereby unintentionally compromise Blaise. These boys are obviously quite dangerous.”
“Then why don’t you do something about them?” Draco insisted.
“We are, Mr. Malfoy,” the Headmaster said, smiling reassuringly. “Trust me. In good time, you will see your friend again.” He held Draco’s gaze for a moment, twinkling blue eyes on steely gray. Then raising his wand, he uttered, “Obliviate.”
The two students looked slightly lost for a moment. Madam Pomfrey moved toward Draco and handed him a vial, saying almost kindly, “Here you are, Mr. Malfoy. Your headache potion. I hope this batch is more effective that the last one we tried. Oh, and please send this one to your mother,” she added, handing him a second one. He nodded mutely.
Ginny reached out to him and rubbed the back of his neck lovingly. She said, “Thank you for allowing us both to go, Professor Dumbledore. I’m sure it meant a lot to Draco.”
With a smile, he replied, “You’re quite welcome, Miss Weasley, Mr. Malfoy. It has been a most trying day. Now if you would both head back to your houses, we will see you tomorrow at breakfast.” They nodded and left the strangely furnished office, wondering vaguely why they had been there and who that strange woman was sitting next to Mr. Filch.
Once they had gone, Professor Dumbledore took Professor Snape aside. “Severus,” he said softly, “please begin Mr. Malfoy’s Occlumency training immediately. Work with him for an hour every other day; if need be, we will rearrange some of his lessons.”
“Is that -- healthy, sir? I mean, so often?” the Potions Master asked.
“It is necessary. He is in far more danger than I had ever suspected.”
~End of Chapter~
See, that wasn’t so bad now, was it? Blaise is fine; you can stop crying about him. Is all forgiven? :-( Sorry for the two-chapter delay -- (not) !
In the Credit Where it is Due Department (which seems to be growing rapidly): I paraphrased part of a line from George Lucas (Star Wars: A New Hope). After meeting Princess Leia, Han Solo says to Luke Skywalker, “Wonderful girl. Either I'm going to kill her or I'm beginning to like her.”
As always, thanks for reading and reviewing (I'm glad you like it, Vanessa)!
This chapter’s title is from the Bee Gee’s song (call it a guilty pleasure of mine - !). You know what they say; no one admits to actually owning a Bee Gees album, but they sold billions of copies to someone . . . !
CHAPTER 12 - Spirits Having Flown
“Not dead? Of course, he’s dead! We just got back from the bloody funeral!” Draco bellowed indignantly at Moaning Myrtle.
“Draco,” she asked him as gently as possible, “did you actually see the body? I mean, was the casket opened or closed?”
“It was closed. So no, we didn’t ‘see the body’,” he replied nastily.
“But if it was closed -- is it possible he might not have been in it at all?” she wondered aloud. Then she voiced what they were all thinking: “Why would they have a funeral for someone who’s not dead?”
“Why, indeed?” Draco snarled, his fingers curling and uncurling as if he might choke the next person who happened by. One staff member, in particular . . . he thought vengefully.
Distracted, Myrtle continued, “Do you suppose . . that could be why the casket was closed? Because it was actually -- empty?”
Shouting at her as if she were a small, stupid child, he growled, “Gods, you’re a ninny -- I told you before, it was a suicide!” That was all she could take of his rudeness; she burst into tears, wailing loudly and fully earning her nickname. He groaned in frustration, “Ugh, not that! Now, Myrtle, please—”
“Draco!” Ginny chided. “She was only trying to help!”
“Yes, I know that,” he snapped at her. Then he turned to Myrtle and said, “Look, I’m sorry . . You just threw me off when you said—” But this time, she would not be so easily appeased. She had gone beyond the veil for him, and this was the thanks she got? For what seemed like an eternity to Draco, but could have only have been a minute or two, she ranted about how unkind he was and how cruel he could be. She simply would not be placated this time, no matter how he pleaded with her.
Then Ginny got an idea that she thought might help to calm her down. As Myrtle’s anguished cries continued unabated, she approached her cautiously. Weighing each word carefully, she said, “Myrtle . . I know . . . how you died.”
Draco’s mouth fell open, shocked that Ginny thought that now was the best possible time to bring that up. He began in a threatening whisper, “Weasley—”
But the ghost’s babbling did cease instantly. “You do?” she asked hopefully. “How? Tell me, please. I am definitely ready to leave Hogwarts.”
Draco hissed, “Not yet! I still need to ask her a few more questions!”
“I don’t think she can help us any further, Draco,” she replied in a flat tone. “She’s helped us all she can. We need to look elsewhere.”
He ignored Myrtle’s ecstatic giggles, saying to Ginny, “You’re right, Weasley. And I’m not going to stand around and wonder about it. I’m going straight to the source!” He turned and ran down the hallway as fast as he could, despite the limited energy that now remained at his disposal. The day had been an emotional roller coaster. Running as if the answer would vanish if he didn’t hurry up and find it, he thought for a brief moment, Damn, I really shouldn’t have exhausted myself back in the gardens . . . but hell, it was definitely worth it!
Ginny groaned then started to chase after him, demanding, “Malfoy, where are you going?”
“To the hospital wing!” he yelled back over his shoulder.
Myrtle, who didn’t see the urgency or the connection, asked, “Why, are you sick?” Apparently, her mood had lightened tremendously and she had forgiven him for insulting her a few minutes ago.
“No!” he replied as he pressed on determinedly. “Madam Pomfrey -- that slag -- she was the one who pronounced him dead! I never have liked her. I’m going to give that lying bitch a piece of my mind then find out what the hell this is all about!”
“Oh, please be rational, Draco!” Ginny shouted as she trailed further and further behind. He was now about twenty feet ahead of her, but he would not be deterred form his mission.
Ginny stopped running and blew out a frustrated breath; she was tired to following him around the school in a futile attempt to keep him in check. If he wants to yell at the school’s Healer, he can do that on his own, she decided. Sighing, she said, “Oh, Myrtle. I swear, I’m either going to kill him, or I think I’m falling in love with the prat.”
The ghost laughed, “Yes, even though he can be a royal pain the arse, there is something rather -- endearing about him, isn’t there? Thank goodness he’s not like his father.”
“What?!” Ginny was shocked and turned around to face her. “You knew his father?”
“Well,” Myrtle confessed shyly, “I had sort of a crush on him, if you must know. He was quite a few years younger than me -- he didn’t even start at Hogwarts until long after I was dead -- but he was easily as handsome as his son. I’m rather embarrassed to admit it, considering how hateful he was -- constantly called me four-eyes, big ugly crybaby, and whatnot.”
Ginny snorted, muttering softly, “Hmph, that’s nothing. He only got worse when he left Hogwarts.” She thought about something for a second or two then asked, “So . . a ghost could have a crush on the living?”
Myrtle nodded in reply. “Oh, yes. I was enamored of Harry Potter for years. Up until last year, in fact, when he got so -- godawful weird.”
“I know exactly what you mean, Myrtle,” the redhead agreed with a faint smile. The conversation was giving Ginny an idea. “Funny you should mention a ghost having a crush on someone who is alive. In my first year at Hogwarts, I myself had sort of a crush on someone who was . . no longer . . . real.” At Myrtle’s bewildered look, Ginny stopped and bit her lip, thinking to herself, This is not starting off well.
She tried again. “Myrtle, do you remember who was Head Boy the last year you were alive?”
“Yes, vaguely. A boy named . . . somebody -- Riddle, wasn’t it?”
“Yes. Tom Riddle,” Ginny confirmed dryly. “Tom turned out to be a very bad wizard. He no longer goes by his name; today, he is called ‘The Dark Lord’ or ‘You-Know-Who’. People are afraid to say his name.” She stopped walking then said seriously, “He was the boy I had a crush on. Aside from Harry, of course.”
Myrtle was stunned. She gasped, “Tom Riddle became The Dark Lord? And you liked him?!”
Ginny clarified, “Well, I didn’t know that at the time! Tom was -- nice. He listened to me.”
Yet the ghost was still skeptical. “Besides, if he went to school here when I did, and now he’s ‘You-Know-Who’, how did you ever happen to have a crush on him?”
“Well, it wasn’t him, actually. It was a memory of his 16-year-old self.” Ginny sighed, “It’s a long, complicated story. I’m sure you remember that book I threw at you?” Myrtle nodded. “Well, I wasn’t throwing at anyone. It was Tom’s enchanted diary, and I just wanted to be rid of it.” She paused then admitted, “He was controlling me with it. Since then, I’ve learned a lot about his days when he was Head Boy. He had some pretty horrible notions, even when he was a student . . and he wasn’t afraid to act on them.”
“How so?” asked the ghost, unsure where this was going.
“Well, when he was in school, he hatched a plot to rid Hogwarts of what he callously called ‘mudbloods’ -- people with nonmagic parents. He hated them all.”
Appalled, Myrtle breathed, “No! You mean, he didn’t like people like me, just because of who we were? Was that why I died -- because of what I was?” Ginny nodded. “But that’s just stupid.”
“I know, but he believed, like Salazar Slytherin did, that people who did not have magic parents should not be allowed to attend Hogwarts. The ironic thing is, his father was a muggle, so he wasn’t even a pureblood himself. Anyway, to eliminate the ‘mudbloods’, he used dark magic to create and control a horrible creature called a Basilisk. It’s a gigantic snake that can kill, just by looking at a person -- with its large, yellow eyes.”
Myrtle stared at her, wide-eyed and a horrified expression on her face. The dawn of reasoning took its place as she uttered: “Oh my God, Ginny,” she said slowly, “was I one of its victims?”
“Yes, you were its first and last . . . until four years ago, when the past, most terribly, most regrettably—” she choked, “very nearly repeated itself. Fortunately, no one was killed the second time it happened, when he was using me to do his . . . dirty work . . through the diary.”
But Myrtle was no longer listening. She had a sort of peaceful, dreamy look on her face. Suddenly, the hallway was filled with all of the other Hogwarts ghosts: the Bloody Baron, the Gray Lady, Sir Nicholas de Mimsey Porpington, Peeves, the Fat Friar, and a few Ginny didn’t recognize. They were floating around, all of them looking at Moaning Myrtle.
Just then, Draco came storming back down the hallway. He started to tell her something as he caught his breath, but then he muttered, “What the fucking hell—”
“Shhh,” Ginny whispered. “I just told Myrtle how she died. I told her everything. All about the Basilisk, Tom Riddle . . everything.”
“Who? Oh, never mind.” He tutted, “I should have known you’d pull a stunt like that.” She glared at him, but he ignored it and went on with what he was going to say. “Well, I didn’t find Madam Pomfrey, so I guess I’ll go see if I can find my Head of House—”
But when the Gray Lady swirled directly in front of him, he found himself distracted by . . . whatever macabre ritual the ghosts were performing. “What are they doing?” he asked, annoyed yet mesmerized. “Are they -- dancing?”
The other ghosts were indeed circling around Moaning Myrtle in what looked rather like a morbid farewell dance, with all the participants hovering just inches above the ground. A few minutes after they started, something odd began to happen to the ghost of honor: She appeared to have regained most of her color. Soon she was practically . . solid, and no longer in drab grays and dirty whites: she looked -- almost human, lifelike even. Her cheeks were radiant, flush with the excitement one gets when preparing to take a trip they have looked forward to for a long time. In turn, her fellow ghosts said their goodbyes.
“Godspeed, child,” said the Fat Friar, his voice jolly.
“Farewell, my dear,” Sir Nicholas added in his strangely warm yet haughty, high-brow tone. He looked as though he admired Myrtle’s courage; if he could still cry, Ginny felt sure he would have.
The Gray Lady reached out to her and whispered softly, “Safe journey, sweet girl.”
The Bloody Baron said nothing. He nodded once to her and lifted his hat as a sign of respect, while Peeves blew her his biggest raspberry ever. “Goodbye, Peeves,” Myrtle laughed, “I’ll miss you, too.” The obnoxious specter’s grin spread across his entire face, and the other ghosts applauded Moaning Myrtle as she prepared to take her final journey. Some of them were sad that she was leaving, others were jealous, but all of them were very happy for her as she went on to the next great adventure. Content with her decision, she sighed and spoke the last words she would ever say to anyone on Earth:
“Thank you, Ginny.”
Blinding streaks of light, starting at her waistline, spread slowly through her corporeal body. Her outer shell gradually evaporated, one fraction at a time. At first, Ginny suspected that it must have been painful, but Myrtle only smiled more and more broadly. As the vanishing girl became evermore ethereal, she glanced heavenward and said excitedly, “Oh, hello, Cedric! How lovely it is to see you again! My, death has been good to you . . . ”
And she was gone. No signs remained that she had ever been there, and the only physical evidence was not exactly solid. As if to give themselves some form of proof that this hadn’t just been some bizarre, shared illusion, both Draco and Ginny grasped for an explanation. Each of them was feeling the after effects of gazing at the sun or some other brilliantly bright light for too long, and for a short while, it was as if they were both drawn to it, still staring into it, and could not look away, as it held them under its spell.
But there was something more . . something intangible and strangely surreal, but with definite substance, that pervaded their consciousness. Neither one could ever quite fully describe it; as she would eventually find out, Harry, Ron, and Hermione had felt it too. The Gryffindor trio, along with Ginny, later deduced that current Hogwarts residents whom Myrtle’s afterlife had touched -- had felt her pass through them as she moved on to the next realm. It was a mystifying experience that the four Gryffs spent a great deal of time analyzing and discussing in the coming days, Hermione being the most outspoken one on the matter.
After Myrtle’s departure, all of the ghosts left the hallway, and the two students prepared to return to their houses. They rounded the next corner, nearly bowling over Professor Snape. Draco made eye contact with him and decided that regardless of the bizarre experience he had just had, the man might be able to explain exactly what had happened to Blaise Zabini. Not caring if he got a detention for his impertinence, he narrowed his eyes and spoke testily, “Why, Professor Snape, just the man I’m looking for—”
“Good, Mr. Malfoy, I need to speak with you as well. You too, Miss Weasley.”
“Me?” squeaked Ginny. “Wh—”
Professor Snape turned on his heel and walked away abruptly, expecting the students to follow him obediently. When she didn’t, Draco grabbed her hand forcefully and dragged her along. They reached their apparent destination, and Professor Snape gave the password; the repulsive gargoyle in front of them moved and the wall opened, revealing a spiral staircase. After they stepped onto the platform, the entire staircase moved in a slow, upward motion. Draco’s first thought was, Man, I gotta get me one of these! As the staircase made its final rotation, Professor Snape commented in a low voice, “Some other staff members are already here. I beg you not to jump to any conclusions; please let them explain themselves first.”
The young Slytherin looked around and thought cynically, If Father could see me now, he would be so furious, he would spit blood! The walls of Professor Dumbledore’s office were covered with portraits of aged wizard and witches, many of whom were asleep and others who were merely pretending to be. There were also a number of oddities and trinkets almost as strange and bizarre as the old man himself. And speaking of strange, he had three guests who were already seated: Madam Pomfrey, Argus Filch, and a woman that neither Ginny nor Draco had ever seen before. Impulsively, he felt like lunging out at the Healer, but Ginny saw him flinch and dissuaded him, grabbing his arm and giving him a cross look.
Albus Dumbledore’s face lit up in a genuine smile. He conjured up three more fluffy armchairs for the new arrivals and greeted them. “Welcome, Mr. Malfoy, Miss Weasley. I thank you all or coming this evening. Severus, if you would be so kind as to explain to these good young people why they are here,” he prompted.
“Certainly, sir.” Professor Snape said smoothly, “I need to relay to you some information about what you have been through recently, Moaning Myrtle’s departure aside. I must speak to you about your friend, Blaise Zabini.”
“Well?” Draco demanded. The fury was evident in his gray eyes as his pale eyebrows raised, urging the man to continue.
He did so, sighing, “The funeral today -- it was a sham. Blaise is fine.”
Draco snapped irritably, “Yes, so we heard. Moaning Myrtle told us that his spirit should be here, but it’s not.” He was having difficulty remaining calm but forced himself not to yell at the professors. “And yet, with all due respect, sir -- how could he not be? I saw him, I touched him, there was no pulse,” he insisted roughly.
Then he stood up and pointed a finger at Madam Pomfrey, accusing, “She said so: He poisoned himself.” He collapsed into his chair, his mind spinning from all that had transpired since they had arrived back at the school. He laughed, a soft, maniacal sound; confused tears threatened to spill over as he said, “If he’s not dead, then of course, I’d be overjoyed . . . But how could that be?”
Taking over for the Potions Master, Professor Dumbledore said, “Mr. Malfoy, I assure you that your friend is in perfect health. I understand your being angry, and I am very sorry we had to make you believe otherwise. It was for his safety, which brings us to why you are here now.” Draco could see in his eyes that the decision had pained him, but he didn’t really care about the old man’s present discomfort.
He clearly deserves it, was his opinion.
The Headmaster went on, “As Professor Snape mentioned, we need to inform you of what has happened and why. Madame Pomfrey?”
“Yes, sir,” she replied. She gave Draco a weak smile and said, “Mr. Zabini’s suicide was staged to convince those who wished to harm him that they could not. It was all carefully planned. Surely you have heard of the powerful sleeping potion, the Draught of Living Death? It is made from root of asphodel and wormwood—”
“Of course, I’ve heard of it!” Draco groused. “Every first-year has!”
Madam Pomfrey pursed her lips and continued, “Professor Snape brewed it for him, and Blaise took it to appear to have died. He was in a very deep sleep and has since revived. He is in America, living safely with the Elliots in their new city. Only their Secret Keeper knows where they are.”
Draco’s expression was one of shock, hurt, betrayal, and relief, all rolled into one. “So Myrtle was right,” he said to himself as his tears flowed freely. “Blaise is alive.”
Madame Pomfrey winced and went on, “Mr. Malfoy, believe me when I say that we are all very sorry to put you through such grief, but our plan had to be completely foolproof.” He looked directly in her eyes, as if he were studying them for any signs of lying. For the briefest of moments, he thought he saw something in them but couldn’t name it . . perhaps a lost memory of some event long since forgotten, or maybe a time when she had kindly mended his Quidditch injuries. If there ever was such a time -- but frankly, he couldn’t recall one. In his fury, the thought fled as he quickly swept it from his mind.
“Why?!” he shouted angrily. “How? I thought—” he stuttered, “it just seemed -- I mean, right after the mirror had arrived, he -- he must have seen an image of someone else, indicating Marianne had been with another -- but how do you explain all that? Was that part of your bloody plan?!” They all looked at one another, as if debating who should answer the belligerent teen’s questions, and how.
Before anyone could answer, another thought occurred to him. “Did Blaise know what the potion was?” His brain was reeling. This was too much for him to comprehend.
Madam Pomfrey sighed and looked to Professor Dumbledore for support. He gave her an understanding smile, silently agreeing to take over for her, saying, “Yes, Mr. Malfoy, your friend knew.”
“That lying, bloody bastard!” he gasped. “He said he was going home!”
The Headmaster continued, “When Blaise learned what some of the students were planning, he went straight to his Head of House for advice. We decided it was best to plan for an eventual attempt on his life. If he believed his enemies were about to strike, or put him in harm’s way, he would take the Draught. Did you not notice him wearing it on a chain around his neck for the past few days?”
Draco was in shock and did not answer the man’s question. “What are you saying? Did Blaise suspect the mirror was part of their plot? That it could be from -- someone other than his grandmother?”
“He knew she would certainly have the means to procure one, so no, he was not fully certain at the time. Naturally, he was curious, having such strong feelings for Miss Elliot. But she sent him letters all the time; he got owls from her practically every day, so of course he doubted what he saw. His suspicions were correct; her feelings for him had not waned. So despite your well-intentioned advice,” he said, looking Draco directly in the eye, “that was why he never could break it off with her.”
He was still perplexed. “Then why did he go through with it? Knowing the potion was false, assuming the mirror may have been from Nott or even Grant, why did he ever -- look into it . . ?” He was trying unsuccessfully to wrap his mind around what he was hearing. “Wait . . . can Fidelity Mirrors be Charmed to lie?” he asked, looking around the room.
Professor Dumbledore answered. “No, they cannot. Although the more common variety of enchanted mirrors, for example, Vanity Mirrors, can, Fidelity Mirrors have anti-charm spells built in -- presumably so a wife cannot keep a hidden lover and therefore compromise the purity of the bloodline.”
Professor Snape took over, “However, it is possible to Charm an ordinary mirror to behave like an enchanted one, giving it some code spell to activate it. But this can only be done by a very experienced witch or wizard; it is far beyond the skill of any student, and we do not suspect any of the instructors. Ever since Professor Quirrell and Barty Crouch, Jr., attempted to deceive us, all Hogwarts staff members have been beyond reproach. The Headmaster sees to that personally now.”
Draco asked irritably, “Then how can we know for sure? Is it possible that Blaise was duped into this?”
“There is a way to determine whether it is a true Fidelity Mirror,” Professor Dumbledore said. Holding the same mirror that had been on Blaise’s bed, he asked, “Mr. Malfoy, would you be so kind as to break this?” Draco scoffed, utterly confused where he was going with this. He grabbed the mirror and threw at as hard as he could at the wall, taking out some of his frustrations on the inanimate object. Shards of glass flew in all directions. Several of the portraits’ subjects jumped, a few of them cursed, and those who actually were asleep were now fully awake.
“Now, Miss Weasley, would you please repair the mirror?”
Unsure why he requested this, she pointed her wand at it and said casually, “Reparo.” The mirror was fully restored to its original state, and Professor Dumbledore smiled with satisfaction.
Draco sighed impatiently, “Exactly what does that prove?”
“Everything, Mr. Malfoy. Once shattered, Fidelity Mirrors cannot be repaired, which is part of what makes them so extremely rare,” the Headmaster replied. “It was the fact that they are so rare that made me suspect that this one could very well be a fake -- that, coupled with the fact that Blaise made no secret of his girlfriend’s name. It would have been easy for a qualified person to add a code spell. Try it, Mr. Malfoy.”
He snorted, “But I don’t have a girlfriend,” casting a petulant glance at Ginny, who squirmed uncomfortably in her seat.
Shrugging, the old wizard prompted, “Say the name of any of the girls you’ve dated, preferably one who has a new boyfriend by now.”
“All right. Hannah,” he said. His own image remained in the mirror. “You’re right; it’s definitely a fake. That trollop wasn’t even faithful while we were dating.”
By now, Ginny was becoming extremely agitated by what she was hearing. She was beginning to think that the professors and the professors had made a grave error in judgment. Feeling empathy for Draco, she stood up and interjected, “Excuse me, sirs and madams, what could have been so bloody important that all this secrecy was necessary? Do you not know what pure anguish this boy has gone through for the past several days?” Her remarks made Draco feel strangely proud, and a slight smile graced his lips.
The other woman in the office, who had not said so much as one word, now rose and walked over to Ginny. A look of recognition in her eyes, she stared into the girl’s face and said, “I told them to.”
Ginny, who was at a complete loss as to who this woman was and why these educated men and women would listen to her, shrugged her shoulders and shook her head. “So?” blurted from her lips.
Then out of the clear blue, the woman spoke to her cryptically. “Guinevere, I forgive you. Now will both of you please forgive them?” Draco looked more confused than he had when he first learned of Blaise’s deception.
“Begging your pardon, ma’am, but who the hell are you?” Ginny lashed out.
“My name is Jane, but they call me Mrs. Norris.”
Ginny felt her knees practically give way as the day that had begun strangely became even more so. That was an answer she wasn’t expecting; in fact, it raised far more questions had already been answered. She exhaled, asking, “What did you say? You’re who?”
Mr. Filch arose and said proudly, “This here is my lovely Mrs. Norris, my Jane. Ain’t she beautiful?” Jane fairly glowed as she turned to look on him.
Ginny, obviously not wanting to appear insane, asked hesitantly, “Mrs. Norris, as in -- your pet cat . . ?” When Filch did not argue the point, Draco spoke up.
“Hang on, wait just a minute -- now, this is even wilder than the incredible tale she told me earlier today,” he said, pointing at Ginny. She merely glared at him in irritation.
Professor Dumbledore explained, “Yes, Mrs. Norris is indeed a cat -- most of the time. I’m afraid it was due to a spell gone badly that is not completely reversible.” He sighed heavily. “She had always been intrigued by Head Girl Minerva McGonagall and her ability to change into a cat. When Argus and Jane were younger, he had agreed to help her with her Animagus training. Unfortunately, neither of them was ready to take on this extremely difficult task. As they were both so young, the attempt was destined to fail.
“Since the accident, it has been Argus’s incredible guilt that has not allowed him to perform any magic. When it became apparent that to continue his magical training would be futile, he was added to the staff so that they could stay together.”
Draco shook his head and asked bluntly, “So are you . . is she . . . human now? Or does it have to do with the moon cycle, like for a werewolf?”
Professor Dumbledore said, “Not exactly, but something like that, as well as a few highly complex and specialized spells. Over the years, I have been able to temporarily restore her back to her human form for a short while, sometimes for as long as two hours. Given the unusual nature of her case, well -- naturally, we do not advertise who she is. And all of our students, and most of the staff, are blissfully unaware that Mr. Filch is not actually a squib. For all intents and purposes, he has a self-imposed magical block. Only he himself can remove it,” he said with a significant look to the caretaker, who glanced down at the floor uncomfortably.
Ginny interjected, “But Mrs. Norris, you said that you told them to fake Blaise’s suicide. And aren’t we here to learn why this had to be done?”
“That’s true, I did. I saw you and Mr. Malfoy that night, standing outside the room that houses the Mirror of Erised. I listened to the voices within the room, and that was when I overheard the other students’ plans. I knew Mr. Grant would stop at nothing to hurt Mr. Zabini. He said not to kill him, but I could sense that he didn’t mean it. He just didn’t want any witnesses who could testify against him.”
As an afterthought, she added cattily, “By the way, Mr. Malfoy, your feet smell atrocious.”
Ginny snickered then asked, “But -- but if you knew we were there, why didn’t you tell Mr. Filch when you were restored to your human form? Not that I want an extra detention, mind you,” she added quickly.
“Unlike the boys at the Mirror, you two appeared to be no threat. I could sense your fear; they had none, and I could see that one boy was already unconscious. I ignored you and led Argus to them instead. He certainly didn’t expect to be Stunned; that young boy, Nott, certainly has stones. Not much for brains, just like his father, but he has very little fear. Thus, the plot to save Blaise Zabini was devised. When he approached Professor Snape, we knew we had to act quickly.”
She turned to Draco and asked, “Mr. Malfoy, didn’t your friend reassure you several times that he would be all right? Professors Dumbledore and Snape insisted on that. He couldn’t come out and tell you, for his safety and your own, but he was told to emphasize it clearly so you would not worry so.”
Draco was ecstatic. It was far too much to hope for: Blaise, alive and well, living in America with his girlfriend and her family. He had to fight to keep his tears from falling again, and Ginny instinctively took him into her arms. He hugged her fiercely and wept with joy into her soft, ginger hair. She stroked his hair tenderly and cooed gentle words of comfort and reassurance.
After several minutes, he looked up and wiped his eyes. “So what happens now?”
“Now,” Professor Snape said, “comes the difficult part. This hurts me more than I can say. You both need to have your memories modified.”
“What?!!” Draco shouted. “You can’t take this from me! This is Blaise we’re talking about -- he’s the closest thing I have to a brother!”
Professor Snape argued, “Believe me when I say it’s for his safety. And yours. Your close friendship is exactly the reason you were not chosen to be his Secret Keeper.”
Ginny asked harshly, “So Draco and I will believe that Blaise is -- really dead?” The she sobbed quietly, “This is so wrong. How could you?”
“No, Miss Weasley,” Professor Dumbledore assured her. “You will both know in your hearts that he is all right, just as you know now. What you cannot have any memory of is the circumstances -- not until you see him again. When your eyes meet his, the memories will be restored to you.” Neither of the students said anything, and the aged wizard added, “We don’t want you to fall victim to these misguided individuals and thereby unintentionally compromise Blaise. These boys are obviously quite dangerous.”
“Then why don’t you do something about them?” Draco insisted.
“We are, Mr. Malfoy,” the Headmaster said, smiling reassuringly. “Trust me. In good time, you will see your friend again.” He held Draco’s gaze for a moment, twinkling blue eyes on steely gray. Then raising his wand, he uttered, “Obliviate.”
The two students looked slightly lost for a moment. Madam Pomfrey moved toward Draco and handed him a vial, saying almost kindly, “Here you are, Mr. Malfoy. Your headache potion. I hope this batch is more effective that the last one we tried. Oh, and please send this one to your mother,” she added, handing him a second one. He nodded mutely.
Ginny reached out to him and rubbed the back of his neck lovingly. She said, “Thank you for allowing us both to go, Professor Dumbledore. I’m sure it meant a lot to Draco.”
With a smile, he replied, “You’re quite welcome, Miss Weasley, Mr. Malfoy. It has been a most trying day. Now if you would both head back to your houses, we will see you tomorrow at breakfast.” They nodded and left the strangely furnished office, wondering vaguely why they had been there and who that strange woman was sitting next to Mr. Filch.
Once they had gone, Professor Dumbledore took Professor Snape aside. “Severus,” he said softly, “please begin Mr. Malfoy’s Occlumency training immediately. Work with him for an hour every other day; if need be, we will rearrange some of his lessons.”
“Is that -- healthy, sir? I mean, so often?” the Potions Master asked.
“It is necessary. He is in far more danger than I had ever suspected.”
~End of Chapter~
See, that wasn’t so bad now, was it? Blaise is fine; you can stop crying about him. Is all forgiven? :-( Sorry for the two-chapter delay -- (not) !
In the Credit Where it is Due Department (which seems to be growing rapidly): I paraphrased part of a line from George Lucas (Star Wars: A New Hope). After meeting Princess Leia, Han Solo says to Luke Skywalker, “Wonderful girl. Either I'm going to kill her or I'm beginning to like her.”
As always, thanks for reading and reviewing (I'm glad you like it, Vanessa)!
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