Chapter Five: Stratagems

4th June 1997

‘Ginny, you’re awake,’ breathes a voice, too sharp in the corners of her mind.

She blinks, irritably, her body still feeling tender, ‘I know, Harry.’

There is a pause as she looks at him, and then looks away, drawing her hands from her sides. Avoiding him.

‘What’s wrong, Ginny?’ His voice could almost pass off as being calm; Ginny would have turned around in surprise if it isn’t for – the circumstances.

‘You mean what’s wrong other than all the things that are wrong? For example, Kelpies appearing out of nowhere in the shape of Tom Riddle, you and Ron and Hermione being ambushed by Dementors – oh wait, and we forget, of course, the entry of Draco Malfoy, and his spectacular exit, and the fact that he’s probably about to –’

‘You’re talking a lot suddenly for someone who refused to talk for so long,’ Harry suddenly interjects. She looks at him, now, unable to help herself. There is something fluid in his eyes. Perhaps it’s the moonlight, streaming in gently into the room…

‘I was in shock,’ she replies quickly, the words reliable and always having explained nothing, really; she pauses. And then opens her mouth again, quickly continuing before Harry can, though this time at a more moderate pace. ‘And I can’t really be accountable for my actions immediately afterwards; I think my mind – just fled for a while there, I suppose.’ She braces herself for his coming words, his hands.

Unexpectedly, Harry leans back.

He seems to study her for a while, eyes narrowing; madly enough, she begins to blush even as strangely, coldly, tendrils of something within her begin to unfurl. There is a palpable sense of something amorphous, almost dangerous, hanging between them.

‘You can’t leave your room for a while, Ginny; Madam Pomfrey said so. I think Mrs. Weasley should be coming up soon to see you, along with the others,’ Harry abruptly says, breaking the heavy silence. There is something detached about his tone of voice, something dead, and despite her confusion about – everything, she supposes, Ginny is almost surprised to find her heart breaking a little at that. He sounds like how he used to. Indifferent, really.

Then he nods, standing, his eyes sliding off her, and leaves the room.

~

Timothy Groan, bending and facing a small frame on the wall, almost reaches into his pocket to finger for a small, coiled wire when a voice says, ‘And I have broken all your warped little charms on the photos, lad.’

He freezes, not turning around.

‘Ingenious charms those were,’ continues the voice, gruff-edged but almost light, ‘it’s been a long time since I’ve seen one of those, and I have to confess I never knew its name. Care to enlighten me, lad?’

He finally turns around, facing Alastor Moody. His back is held straight.

‘It doesn’t have a name,’ he replies, almost matter-of-factly. ‘An old household charm used by elves and maids sick of listening to grumbling portraits.’

‘Hmm,’ Moody says in return, ‘that must be most useful. Dreaming up of scenarios that the portraits’ subjects can immerse themselves in and cursing them to repeat changing permutations of these over and over, making them neglect the situation external to their frames. Exquisite form of torture, really…those elves and maids of yore must have had bucketfuls of time.’

The boy in front of him only nods solemnly. ‘I believe there used to be an abundance of elves and maids in the old houses, sir, to allow for such excesses.’

‘Stop playing your little games with me, boy,’ Moody suddenly growls. ‘The only reason why you are here still…’

‘Is because I’m one of the players you want to watch?’ finishes Groan, sounding perfectly helpful.

Moody leans back. ‘Is because you’ll be in more danger if you were away, won’t you?’ he says, softly and almost gently. The years and the sins that the boy is chasing…

The boy turns away, but stands his ground.

‘Be careful, boy. Do what you have to do, but don’t do it through such ways; don’t hurt her.’

Timothy Groan nods, and, not looking up at Moody, turns to move away.

~

‘Mum, there’s a black shadow in my room!’ The voice is high with its usual panic, and Mr. and Mrs. Underwood groan to themselves from across the hall. Mrs. Underwood turns her head into her pillow, muttering, ‘Your turn, please, Julian…’

‘Nic, I’ve got a presentation tomorrow…’ A pause, then a yawn. ‘Anyway…well…he called for you, dear.’

Mrs. Nicole Underwood curses under her breath; she cannot argue against that – hasn’t found an argument against that. And this happens, night after night after night. First sounds, then strange lights, and now a shadow in his room…

Think of Andrew’s beautiful eyes, she wills herself, think of your baby boy’s beautiful blue eyes…

In any case Andrew has gone quiet, which is unusual for him – it always was cries and screams until she half-stumbles her way in and provides maternal comfort and protection against the forces of darkness. Perhaps it isn’t quite the time yet for Andrew to sleep on his own – or perhaps they should get a night light, yes, that was probably the best solution…

She reaches the door frame, and flicks on the light switch.

And she begins to scream.

~

5th June 1997

‘They attacked a Muggle family last night,’ said Mr. Weasley, and there is something hollow and despairing in his voice which makes his children flinch. ‘Nothing to do with the magical community – except, well, except...except that it was in the vicinity…’

‘How bad was it, Dad?’ asks Fred – George has his face turned away from the table.

Mr. Weasley looks like he cannot bring himself to speak – he grimaces, opens his mouth, and then shuts it again.

‘They murdered a six-year-old Muggle boy,’ comes Moody’s rough, matter-of-fact voice, ‘slashed him apart. He was wide awake when they did it – blue eyes wide open…’

‘…the parents?’ comes a voice in the stunned silence, a thread of dawning horror in it.

‘Completely unharmed,’ replies Moody steadily, though at Mrs. Weasley’s look he corrects himself, continuing, ‘well, as unharmed as anyone can be when you find your only son brutally murdered with no one and nothing about other than a large black Death-Eater’s cowl hanging from the clothes stand.’

‘What spell was used?’ Harry’s voice is steadier than everyone seems to expect it to be – at least everyone turns around in surprise as he says it.

Moody’s magical blue eye wheels around to him. ‘Sectumsempra spell, just like the one Malfoy used against the Kelpie.’

Harry’s eyes harden, and he says, quickly, ‘Well, what…’

‘Malfoy has not come out of a coma, Harry,’ says Ginny, voice soft. ‘In any case, the wards are back up around him.’

Abruptly the silence descends again, as Harry slowly turns to face her.

‘Well, other than Malfoy and I, I can think of only one other person who would know…’

‘Why leave the cowl, though, Moody?’ interjects Tonks. She shoots a glance at Harry, which is ignored, before sending another to Ginny – who is looking down at her bowl of cornflakes.

‘Calling card,’ says Moody gruffly. ‘Jeering at us.’

‘How are we going to deal with the situation, sir?’ comes another voice – Higgs. His fingers are twisting about each other again, faster and faster. ‘We don’t have the resources to protect all the houses around…’ He pauses, and everyone waits for his next words, the inevitable and the unwanted. ‘And it’s going to happen again. It’s going to happen until…’

‘Until the wards on the Burrow are taken down,’ finishes Mrs. Weasley, ‘until we all come out in the open for their picking.’

Her hand flutters about the handle of the teapot, her voice breaks, and this time no one can speak.

~

The silence is only broken when a broken sort of cough comes from the stairs. Everyone looks up in surprise.

‘Malfoy?’ expostulates Ron, always the first to react. His wand is gripped tight in his hand. ‘Aren’t you…?’

‘…I don’t know either,’ the blond boy replies, his voice weak, ‘I just woke up and sort of pulled myself up,’ He pauses, taking in the suspicion and confusion on the faces before him. Something steels in his deathly pale face. ‘I was hungry,’ he continues, voice slightly harder this time.

‘Did you do anything to the wards, Malfoy?’ Moody asks, studying the boy with a narrowed eye – his magical eye whirls madly about its socket.

‘What wards?’ Malfoy replies irritably, as he grips the banister and slowly descends down the stairs. ‘There weren’t any. Pomfrey must have thought I was going to die anyway. I would say it would have likely been a better fate,’ he pauses again, on the last step, looking critically about him in a shadow of an attitude that had come to define him in the eyes of those in the room, ‘hell should have better entertainment than this.’

‘Then why do you seem to be so unwilling to saunter down in that direction?’ says Harry, the venom evident in his voice. His glare is directed purely at Malfoy now.

‘Harry,’ admonishes Mrs. Weasley; brushing her hand across her eyes quickly, she continues, almost in her usual bustling manner, ‘the questions for the poor boy can be asked later. He’s hungry – as all of rest of you should be, as well. Although Arthur, perhaps you had better summon Poppy here now, for her to examine the boy as soon as possible. I doubt he should be up and about, really. But – breakfast, everyone, come now…’

Everyone shifts immediately, almost like clockwork; silently, Ginny rises to get the necessary items for one more place at the table from the kitchen. Malfoy has somehow made his way to the table, hovering – uncertainly, except that he somehow manages to look disdainful while he is at it – at the corner. Meeting his eye, she places his plate and utensils next to her own place, second to the corner of the table, then pauses –

‘Where’s Timothy?’

~