sam_storyteller (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
sam_storyteller) wrote2005-07-08 03:15 pm
sam_storyteller) wrote2005-07-08 03:15 pm
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Harry Potter and the Legion of Ghosts: Ch. 5
Notes: Thanks to imaginarycircus for the beta-read. Hermione's presence in this chapter, entirely due to her.
Chapter Five: The Scholar And The Madman
The offices of MLE broadly encompassed both the Aurors and the Wizengamot, as well as the Misuse of Muggle Artifacts Office, the Improper Use of Magic Office, and the Magical Law Enforcement Squad, among others. It employed a sizeable majority of the people who worked in the Ministry, and it threw together people from all walks of life, particularly when it came to the MLE canteen. The Aurors had their own cubbyhole to eat in, as did most offices, but the big, echoing canteen was the only place you could actually buy a sandwich or a bowl of soup unless you wanted to take your life in your hands and go out to Diagon Alley at lunchtime.
Harry sat at one of the dozens of small tables in the canteen, chin propped in one hand, picking at the lunch he'd bought with the other. He waited while Hermione paged through the notes Neville had given him, occasionally taking a bite of her sandwich.
"Neville's got very neat penmanship," she said absently. "That surprised me at school -- I expected he'd chickenscratch like you and Ron do."
"I don't chickenscratch!" Harry said. Hermione glanced at him sardonically over the top of the parchment.
"These diagrams are rather well done, wonder if he used a drafting charm," she continued. "He must be thinking of doing a paper on the Sword of Gryffindor. Maybe on Goblin craftsmanship in general."
"That's what I thought," Harry said. "There's loads of references, but they're all really obscure books. I thought you might have a few. I made a booklist at the end."
Hermione turned to the last page, nodding. "Yes, you won't find these at Flourish and Blotts. Poor Neville, we always underestimate him, but this is some extremely well-done research. Harry..."
"Yeah?" Harry asked, sensing there was a lecture coming.
"Not that it's any of my business, except as someone who cares about your well-being, but don't you think you're missing the point?" she asked.
"What point?" he said. "I saw the Sword of Gryffindor when I know I couldn't have, and I want to know whether it's actually in two places at once, or that's some kind of illusion, or I'm just going mad."
"Nice to know you're considering every angle," Hermione said with a smile.
"It's just, and say if I've misread this, Neville seems to think the sword can exist in two places at once. Which means maybe what I saw is real," Harry said.
"Do you want them to be real, Harry?" Hermione asked.
"What?" Harry said, sitting up.
"Well, it's just..." she set the papers down, glancing at him and then glancing away. "It seems to me like you're distracting yourself -- looking for proofs that are pretty much based on could be. If I were you -- "
Harry groaned, and she sighed.
" -- if I were you, I'd be following the dagger. That's what's going to tell you what all this is," she finished.
"Demystification has the dagger now, they'll run plenty of tests," Harry said.
"What do you know about it?" Hermione asked.
"Not a whole lot, it's only just gone in. Well, Broderick mentioned the last man who owned it was Amos Diggory."
"Cedric's father?" Hermione asked, startled. "That's a little odd, isn't it? What would he be doing with a dark artefact?"
"That's sort of what I wondered," Harry replied. "He's in St. Mungo's now. Probably the Janus Thickey ward. You know the one."
"What happened to him?"
"Dunno." Harry shrugged. "Broderick says he went mad."
"Harry, don't you think that's important? You should find out if the dagger is connected."
"FDI will figure it out," Harry insisted. Hermione gave him a Look. "They will!"
"And since when have you been one to wait patiently for information to come to you? You could find out some real information, and instead you're stringing yourself along, researching the Sword of Gryffindor."
Harry looked down at his hands, picking at a fingernail idly.
"I suppose I don't blame you if you don't want to go to St. Mungo's," Hermione relented. "One visit to the long-term ward's enough to put anyone off it for life."
"Yeah, well, if I go, they might want to keep me," Harry muttered.
"Not feeling your sanest?" Hermione asked.
"I'm not sleeping well," he admitted. "I keep waking up expecting to see someone standing over my bed. You were there when we visited the ward, Hermione -- you remember Gilderoy Lockhart. Spend too much time in a place like that and you forget which direction sanity is. And there's no actual harm in researching the sword, it's very interesting. Anyway, I'm not supposed to be running around on Auror business," he added.
"As if that's stopped you in the past," she replied. "I'm only saying this as a friend, Harry. It's your choice, of course, and if you want to chase after the Sword of Gryffindor I can help. It's only that I worry you're putting off the inevitable. You're not going to feel really secure until you know what the dagger actually does."
Harry sat silently, trying to formulate a response. Before he could, a hand touched his shoulder lightly.
"Good afternoon, Harry," said Kingsley Shacklebolt, a tray of food held in one hand. "Hello, Hermione."
"Minister," Harry said, standing as per Auror custom. Hermione smiled and stayed seated.
"Sit, sit. I hear you're still recuperating," Kingsley continued. A small group of witches and wizards paused just past their table, obviously waiting for him. Harry sat down, nodding to Arthur at the back of the group.
"Doing all right, sir," he said.
"I'm pleased to hear it. Can't stay away from the Ministry, hm?"
Harry heard an undertone in Kingsley's voice that made the question a little more volatile than it sounded. "Pet project. Hermione's helping me with some research."
"I see. And when are you back?"
"Little under a week," Harry said.
"Excellent. I'd stay and speak with you more, but I'm keeping people waiting," Kingsley said. "I'll see you this afternoon, Hermione. Look after yourself, Harry."
Harry turned back to Hermione as Kingsley joined his party again, moving toward the large table near the middle of the room that was reserved for the Minister. "Why're you meeting with the Minister this afternoon?"
"House-Elf Advisory Council's assembling to discuss policy," Hermione said.
"Yeah, HEAC -- the noise that follows SPEW," Harry grinned.
"You can laugh all you want, but I think we're making headway. Anyway, I should go and prep our presentation for the meeting. But," Hermione added, neatly reassembling Neville's notes, "if you're really serious about doing more research on the sword..."
"Yeah, I am," Harry replied.
"All right. I'll owl a friend of mine at the Literary Society, he might be able to help you. He can get you into the library, anyway, and show you around a bit."
"Get me into the library?" Harry asked. "What, do I need a special pass now?"
"For this one, you do," Hermione answered, smiling. She kissed him on the cheek as she handed the parchment over. "Try to rest. And take your sandwich with you," she added, pointing at the barely-touched meal on Harry's plate. Harry folded the paper wrapper around it and shoved it in his pocket.
"I will," he said. She nodded, but she still looked worried. "I'm fine, Hermione, really."
"I hope so," she replied.
***
Harry should have known that Hermione, let loose on the wizarding world, wouldn't only belong to the public magical lending libraries; all the really dangerous (and thus really interesting) books were housed in subscription libraries, closed to the public without special pass. Even the famous Harry Potter had to get a member to vouch for him before he could be let in.
"I'm meeting someone here," he said to the clerk in the small, claustrophobic foyer of the Literary Society of Wizarding London. He took a letter from Hermione out of his pocket. "Elias Gordon?"
"Is that Mr. Potter?" a voice drifted out from another room. "Just a second, I'm putting away my books. It's all right, Whyte, I'll vouch for him."
The clerk looked at Harry suspiciously. "Fill out this card," he barked. "I'll need identification."
Harry had the perverse desire to push his hair off his forehead and show off the scar; everyone else seemed to identify him that way. Instead, he took his Auror badge and licence card out of his pocket and laid them on the table, putting down his name and address on the card.
"Thank you, Mr. Potter," the man said, sounding unimpressed. "Empty your pockets, please. Your belongings will be locked in a safebox; I'll bring you the key."
"Wand too?" Harry asked. "And I have some research notes..."
"Wand and notes are okay. No quills or ink, you'll be provided with non-staining ink and special quills."
Harry dumped the contents of his pockets into the box, watching as the clerk picked them over.
"Ring of keys, three-galleons-five-knuts, two lollies -- "
"Godson," Harry said.
" -- Auror-issue parchment pad, portable quill, and a sandwich." The clerk picked up the half-open wrapper, studying it. "Day old, unless I miss my guess."
Harry felt his face turn red. "You can throw that out."
"Just so." He dropped it fastidiously into a bin at his feet and closed the lid of the box, disappearing into a doorway behind his desk. As he did so, another man emerged from a second doorway, dusting off his sleeves.
"Mr. Potter, it is a pleasure," he said, offering one hand. "I'm Elias Gordon."
"Thanks," Harry replied, taking it. He found his fingers held tightly as the man turned his hand over, studying the scar on its back.
"So it's true," he smiled at Harry. "You never tell lies."
"We all tell lies," Harry murmured, pulling back.
"My apologies -- I'm a curious man, and I forget my manners, spending all this time around books. Ms. Granger said you were in need of a native guide, so here I am."
The clerk reappeared with a small metal band and a key, handing the key to Harry. "Your wand, please, Mr. Potter."
"Does everyone who comes here go through this?" Harry asked, passing over his wand. The clerk slid the little metal ring down the wand, securing it snugly.
"No," Gordon replied. "Members are given freer access than guests."
"Well, how much to become a member?"
Gordon exchanged an amused look with the clerk, who chuckled. "It's not about money, Mr. Potter," the clerk said. "This is a scholars' library. Now, this ring will restrict your spell casting ability to charms which do not damage the books and materials in the library."
"Uh, thanks," Harry said, sliding the wand up his sleeve.
"Ink, paper, and quills in the next room, next to the card catalogue. Enjoy your research."
"What did he mean, it's not about money?" Harry asked, as Gordon led him through a doorway into another small room, filled with pots of ink and parchment at one end, a towering card catalogue at the other. "What's it about, if it's not about the fee?"
Gordon handed him a quill and an inkpot. "The fee is nominal, paid yearly after one is confirmed as a member. Confirmation requires testimonials from three members in good standing. Generally, you also must be published in two or three academic journals or make a significant contribution to the intellectual welfare of wizardkind."
Harry blinked. "And Hermione did all that?"
"She is what's known as a provisional member. She had the references -- Horace Slughorn arranged that -- but she hasn't been published yet."
"It's still pretty impressive," Harry said.
"She is a unique young woman," Gordon replied. "It's been a pleasure being her sponsor."
"Do you work here?" Harry asked.
"Not precisely. I'm a research scholar; I do my work here, and an older member is always assigned to be a guide to the new blood. Shall we?"
Harry eyed the card catalogue apprehensively. Gordon grinned.
"I'll show you the library, and we will use that behemoth only as needed." He opened another door and gestured Harry through.
Stepping into the library itself was like moving into a whole different world. It was a complete release from the two grubby cubbyholes at the entryway; the ceiling rose high above, and the cooling charms ensured that the yellow sunlight streaming through the glass windows didn't affect the books. Here and there, elderly library members climbed ladders or stood talking in small knots or drowsed in corners. Harry felt oddly young, in amongst the aged scholars.
"You will need to explain to me what you've come here to find," Gordon continued, strolling idly toward the windows. "Ms. Granger's owl was vague on the subject. She said you'd tell me what you wanted me to know. Do you have a book-list?"
Harry reached into his pocket and took out Neville's notes, separating the last page from the rest. "Here's the ones I'd like to see, and these others are just sort of...general subjects," he added, a little intimidated by the older man's scholarly scrutiny.
"H'm. Godric Gryffindor; Hogwarts - Historic; Armaments - Magical," Gordon read the subjects aloud to himself. "Are you researching Gryffindor?"
"Not exactly," Harry said.
"Legendary Hogwarts? The heroic archetype in modern mythopoesis?"
"Modern what?" Harry asked.
"I suppose not. Why don't you tell me what you're searching for. As much as you're comfortable with," he added hastily.
"I'm looking up the Sword of Gryffindor," Harry said. "It's...um, a sword."
Gordon gave him a dry look. "Belonging to Godric Gryffindor, perchance?"
"Not anymore." Harry grinned impudently. Gordon chuckled.
"Word of it has reached us even here, Mr. Potter; we do read newspapers, and I recall some little debate breaking out in our circle over whether beheading large serpents was really a proper use for such an artefact. And why are you researching it?"
"To know more about it?" Harry ventured.
"That's a refreshing answer from someone so young and so famous," Gordon said. "These aren't your notes, I take it? They don't look like Ms. Granger's handwriting."
"I got them off a friend -- well, Neville, he's still got the sword."
"I see. So we aren't searching for the thing itself, then. I understand it tends to...come and go."
"Not exactly. See..." Harry hesitated. Hermione obviously thought this man was trustworthy, and he seemed harmless enough, but long habit made him cautious. "What do you know about the sword?"
Gordon tapped the rolled-up booklist against his lips. "Goblin-made, supposedly comes to the aid of a hero who needs it. I'm certain the Goblins are thrilled that it keeps disappearing. I don't think much has been written on it, really. Wizards prefer wands to swords."
"Well, Neville has some theories about why it does that. Disappear, I mean."
"Nothing I like better than a theory. Tell me how I can help," Gordon replied. Harry hesitated again. "Mr. Potter, I can only be of so much assistance if I'm lacking in facts. Certainly you're not obliged to tell me the secrets of your soul, but I can assure you that this search is strictly academic to me."
Stung that Gordon had seen through him so cleanly, Harry clenched Neville's notes. "He thinks that the sword doesn't totally exist," he said, a little louder than he'd intended, trying to startle the other man.
"Despite having once used it to behead a serpent?" Gordon asked, looking almost amused. "How doesn't it exist?"
Harry took one of the pages of notes out of the stack and offered it to him. "He thinks that the sword has a soul."
It was Gordon's turn to hesitate. He moved forward, but his body leaned as if he were trying not to come any closer to the notes.
"Let me be plain," Gordon said softly. "This holds no practical interest for me; I study for the joy of studying, Mr. Potter, and I leave the practical application of my work to others. I believe in the free exchange of ideas, but I also believe that some ideas are better left fallow. If you are hunting a Horcrux, I want nothing more to do with it."
"How do you know what a Horcrux is?" Harry asked, startled. "If Hermione -- "
"No, she's never spoken of them. I told you -- I'm a scholar. Knowing things is our business," Gordon said. "The question is, how does the Boy Who Lived come by such knowledge? After all, rumours abound that you died and came back to life. Isn't that what the Skeeter woman wrote in her wretched biography? That you are The Boy Who Lived And Died And Lived Again?"
Harry jerked his arm forward and his wand slid out of his sleeve. He pressed it subtly to Gordon's chest. People moved in and out of the stacks around them, speaking in whispers; he didn't want to make a scene in front of the entire library.
"Are you implying I made a Horcrux?" he asked hoarsely.
"That won't work in here," Gordon said casually, not bothering to brush the wand aside. "You're restricted, and murder is definitely on the forbidden list in the library."
He stepped backwards, and Harry lowered his wand. One or two people stared. Gordon swallowed, not quite as cool as he had pretended to be, and continued.
"I take it the implication that you have made a Horcrux offends you; I'm offended by the very concept of their existence. But if you didn't make one, Mr. Potter, how do you know what one is?"
Harry wanted to lean forward and ask the man how he thought Voldemort survived to rise again, but he didn't; the promise to Dumbledore was still strong on his conscience.
"You fight the darkness, you learn about what's in it," he said instead, shoving his wand back up his sleeve. "Which isn't the point."
"Then do tell me, what is?"
"Why should I trust you?" Harry asked.
"Because you have seen that I am capable of being silent when I wish, and speaking when I must?" Gordon raised an eyebrow. "You might have been a warrior, but they also serve who only stand and wait. We fought on your side in our own way, with words and books and debate, and some of the finest minds of the Society now grace the offices of the Ministry. If you can't trust me, I see no way through to assisting you; if you can, rest assured your secrets will not leave these walls."
Harry looked up at the older man, considering. Hermione wouldn't have asked just anyone to help him, and Gordon seemed sincere. It wasn't as if he had to tell him about what he'd seen, and if he could keep quiet about a Horcrux...
"The Sword of Gryffindor isn't a horcrux," he said.
"I gathered, from your horror of the thing."
"Its soul is its own. That's the theory, anyway. The sword lives in this...world, I guess, and the soul of the sword lives in another place. That's why it can travel, apparently -- be where it needs to be."
"What do you want to know about it, if you know all that?" Gordon asked.
"How it happens. Where you'd find the soul. If it's possible to see it. How the sword knows when it's needed." Harry frowned. "I believe in Neville's theory, but I want to know more about it."
"Very well." Gordon looked up at the ceiling, then to his left. "It's just as well you're with me; the books you want are in another room, and the doorways tend to come and go without warning. The library knows you're a visitor and it likes to play tricks with the guests. Come along."
He took off at a brisk pace through the stacks. Harry followed as they made their way deep into the shelves and then up a spiral staircase, out onto a walkway overlooking the atrium where they'd just been standing.
"The catwalks connect all the rooms in a fixed position, so they're more stable than the ground-floor doors," Gordon said, tapping the railing. "Solid iron, very useful for fixing locations."
He strode down another row of shelves and through a doorway, into a room that looked identical to the other one except that the walls and floor were done in shades of blue, instead of the black and white marble of the central room.
"You want Quantum Metaphysics," Gordon said, stopping occasionally to check strange, encoded signs on each shelf. He took a book off one of them and handed it to Harry. "Magical metallurgy, that'll be a help...history of Goblin Culture..."
Harry watched, somewhat bemused, as Gordon began pulling books off of shelves seemingly at random, piling some on his own arm and handing some to Harry. He spoke quietly as he worked, apparently having forgotten that Harry had been threatening him ten minutes earlier.
"What you want to know is the complex charmwork involved in inanimate animation, non-physical matter transference, and magical metallurgy," he said thoughtfully, studying a book and then discarding it on a cart. "Specifically the Founders-era theories, because that's when the sword was made, is it not? I don't concieve of Godric Gryffindor picking up a magical souled sword in a second-hand shop and declaring it his."
"Probably," Harry said, though Gordon had already moved on. He followed quickly. "You enjoy this, huh?"
"I wouldn't do it for a living if I didn't," Gordon replied. "You're an Auror, aren't you?"
"Yeah."
"Well, to each his own. You couldn't pay me to do your job. I prefer Dark Wizards who died hundreds of years ago; they never fire back." He led Harry to a long, smooth wooden table, hidden in the midst of the shelves, and set down his books, taking Harry's as well. "I can leave you to your studies, if you'd prefer, but I must admit I'm intrigued. Would you care to have some help?"
He gestured at the large pile of books on the table, which suddenly looked very foreboding.
"Please," Harry said in a small voice. Gordon threw himself into a chair enthusiastically and opened a book.
Harry spent the afternoon buried in textbooks and research, something he hadn't done since his first year of Auror training. Gordon didn't seem to know much more than Harry about what the books actually contained, even though he knew where to find them, and Harry was glad to have someone muddling through with him. They both took notes, Gordon more enthusiastically than Harry; the pile of parchment slowly grew, and once they had to summon a few more rolls from the supply room below.
As the shadows began to lengthen, Gordon closed one book and looked up.
"I've gleaned all I can from these volumes; how are you faring?"
Harry shrugged. "I think I've got all I'm going to. I'm not sure I can get my head all the way round it, but it's a distraction."
There was a pause.
"From what?" Gordon asked. Harry frowned. "Ah. Well, you've known me all of four hours, so I won't press." He began to stack the books as Harry rolled up the old parchment notes along with the new.
"I appreciate the help," Harry said.
"It was my pleasure." Gordon offered him his notes. "Though if I may suggest..."
"Yeah?"
"What we've found here are interesting proofs and flourishes for Mr. Longbottom's theories, and I'm sure he'll appreciate that. But a scholar's goal is to build upon what comes before, not simply confirm it. Whatever this is...distracting from, it seems that there is an avenue of research you may be ignoring."
"That's what Hermione said," Harry sighed.
"She's a smart woman. I suggest you follow her advice. Certainly if you need access to the library again, you're welcome to use my name; if I'm available, I'm happy to help."
Harry smiled grimly. "I have a feeling the library isn't where I need to go next."
"That may be the case. Good luck in your studies, Mr. Potter."
"Thank you, Mr. Gordon," Harry said, offering his hand again. Gordon shook it, ignoring the scars this time.
***
In Harry's experience, books -- while useful -- had never been a good substitute for firsthand experience and random chance. He knew Hermione would hate to hear him say that, but Harry wasn't as good as she was at distilling down what he needed to know and acting on it. He needed to talk to people, to ask questions, to dive in. He'd been avoiding it, but you couldn't avoid it forever. And Hermione and Gordon were right that he needed to expand his research.
So, despite all his fear of the place and all the warnings in his head telling him not to, he went to St. Mungo's the next morning.
He reckoned that if Amos Diggory had been in St. Mungo's a while, he was probably in the Janus Thickey ward, where Neville's parents were. He knew where it was, and his official robes and Auror's badge were be sufficient to get him in.
"What on earth did the poor soul do?" the mediwitch asked him, when he presented himself and asked to see Amos Diggory. "There were two of you here just a few days ago to see him. He's kept quite secure, you know."
"Just a follow-up, ma'am," Harry said. "I had a few more questions for Mr. Diggory."
"You aren't from FDI, are you?" she asked, squinting at him.
"The Demystification squad? No," Harry answered.
"Good. Those two set him off something awful, it took the whole afternoon to calm him down. I suppose they warned you about him, though."
"Warned me?" Harry asked, as she took a ring of keys from her belt and led him down the hall.
"About Amos? We're all used to him, of course," she said, unlocking one of the doors. Harry thought he saw a face in the window of one of the others; he wondered if it was Frank Longbottom. "Here you are. I should warn you I intend to stand right here and if he makes any noise at all, it'll be the end of your interview, Auror or not."
"I'll do my best not to upset him," Harry promised, and meant every word. She opened the door and he stepped into a sunny, cheerful room with a single bed on it.
A figure sat in a chair near a window, gazing out onto the rolling grass of the St. Mungo's grounds. He didn't look up when Harry entered.
"Mr. Diggory," Harry said softly. Still no movement. "I've come to ask you some questions. May I sit down?"
One hand, resting on the table next to the chair, unfolded slightly. Harry took it as an invitation, but halfway to the other chair he stopped in his tracks.
From here he could see Cedric's father more clearly, and he could see why the mediwitch had asked if he'd been warned. Long, thin scars criscrossed Diggory's arms and hands, a network of raised white ridges that began at his fingertips and distorted the muscle and flesh up to where his arms disappeared into the short sleeves of his hospital pyjamas. They continued at the edge of his collar, across his shoulders and collarbones. One leg of his trousers was hitched, and the scars there looked deeper, more desperate. There were bumpy nicks along the curve of his ear. The only untouched part of him seemed to be his face, and that was haggard and grim, eyes deep-set in their sockets. Diggory turned his face slightly, eyes sweeping over Harry with only dim recognition.
"Do you remember me, Mr. Diggory?" Harry asked.
"Yes," Diggory replied. "Potter."
"That's right. How are they treating you here at the hospital?"
"Well," Diggory said.
"What happened to your arms?"
The man covered his left arm with his hand, tugging on the sleeves of the shirt. "Nothing," he mumbled. Harry sat cautiously, and Diggory turned back to the window.
"I understand some people came to talk to you," Harry said conversationally. "They came to ask about an artefact you used to own."
"My knife," Diggory said.
"That's right. A little gold knife? You sold it a little while ago, right?"
"He took it from me," Amos growled, and Harry held up his hands in a calming gesture.
"We're looking into that. Did you tell them about it?"
"No," Diggory said. "They were crude children. My Cedric will thrash them when he hears."
Harry raised his eyebrows. "Cedric, your son?"
"Yes." Silence for a moment. Then, "You were the one who brought his body back, weren't you?"
"I was," Harry agreed. "It was his last request. So...you know your son is dead, Mr. Diggory?"
"Yes," Amos said. "That's why I need my knife, don't you see? I need it!"
"Shh-hshhh," Harry hissed. "Why do you need your knife, Amos?"
"It helps me," Amos whispered. "Don't tell anyone."
"I won't," Harry said. "I just want to understand."
"The woman who sold it to me," Amos said. "She told me I could see my son again. It would help me."
Harry felt his thoughts race. "Did it?"
"No!" It was an almost agonised howl, though it wasn't enough to bring the mediwitch barging in. "I saw...so many things..."
Amos absently drew his thumbnail up his arm, following the path of one of the scars, and Harry realised what they were -- he had cut himself with the knife, just like the shopkeeper had cut Harry. Trying to see ghosts. Trying to see his son again.
"I saw so many people, but Cedric wouldn't come to me," Amos said, tears beginning to roll down his face. "Please tell him I'm not angry at him!"
"It's all right, I'm sure he knows," Harry said, aghast and upset. "Maybe he...got delayed," he added, knowing how lame it sounded.
"Nothing would stop Cedric from coming to me if he really wanted," Amos' voice trembled. "But they took my knife from me. So I tried with a new knife, but it didn't work at all, I couldn't even see the others anymore..."
"What others?" Harry asked.
"You don't know," Amos turned to him violently. "You don't know! What do you know about ghosts? I saw them! Dozens of them! Nobody else did! You don't know!"
"Okay, okay, I don't know. Explain it to me," Harry soothed.
"I can't," Amos whimpered. "I don't have my knife."
Harry watched the wreck of a man collapse in on himself, weeping, and he didn't venture to ask any more questions. Cedric's father had been cheerful with his son and stern in his duties; four -- six -- was it seven years already? Seven years ago he had seen what the death of a child could do to a man. He had been fourteen and he'd never thought to check on Amos, to see how he and his wife were doing after Cedric's murder.
"Amos," Harry said softly. He had what he'd come for; the least he could do was try to give the man some peace of mind. He rose from the chair and crouched in front of Amos, touching his hands for permission before taking one slim, scarred hand in his. "Amos, let me tell you something."
There was no reply, so he continued.
"I am sure that if it was possible for Cedric to see you, he would," he said. "And I promise you will see him again."
"When?" Amos asked, his eyes lighting up.
"Not for a little while. Maybe a few years," Harry replied, guessing at his age and his obviously fast-deteriorating health. "He can't come see you right now, but he's waiting for you."
"How do you know?"
"I just do," Harry said. "So you don't need your knife anymore, all right? You just need to be patient."
"Really?" Amos whispered. Harry felt oddly as if he were talking to Teddy or Victoire -- a small child with utter faith in him.
Merlin knew, Amos Diggory's faith in Harry Potter was misplaced, but if it would give Amos some peace after what he'd done to himself, then Harry would use it anyway.
"Really," he said. "I should go now. Thank you, Amos."
Amos smiled at him, but after a second or two the smile faded; Harry was no longer part of whatever reality Amos Diggory now lived in, and he went back to staring aimlessly out the window as if the young Auror wasn't even there.
"I appreciate your time," Harry said to the mediwitch, as she locked the door behind him and led him back down the hall. "Mr. Diggory was very helpful."
"Well, I'm glad to see someone finally handling him like he isn't a criminal," she said severely.
"Can I ask you a question?" he said.
"Me? I don't know anything about whatever it is you're investigating, I'm sure."
"No, not that. Just about Mr. Diggory. I know he was married," Harry drew a deep breath. "Do you know what happened to his wife?"
The woman frowned. "She died, I believe. I know she was Muggleborn and so many were caught up in the sweeps the Ministry did...you know. Back then. And of course that couldn't have been long after they lost their son. It was just too much for one man to bear, I'm sure."
"Probably so," Harry murmured. "Thank you, again. I don't think anyone else will bother him."
He felt his hands clenching into fists as he walked away, and he was grateful that the stairwell he used to descend to the ground floor was empty. The sound of his boots echoed chaotically back at him from all sides. He didn't want to think about what it meant that he had seen Sirius and Remus and Tonks when Amos couldn't see his own son; he didn't want to think about the idea that if he got hold of the knife again he might go the way Diggory went.
Losing his son had nearly crushed him. Harry recalled that much. But he'd had his wife...until he lost her to those idiots at the Ministry during the war. Small wonder he'd been dying for whatever comfort he could get. Nearly had died, by the look of those scars.
Harry leaned against the cold cement wall on the ground floor, one hand drawing back to punch it. Before he could, he felt a touch on his shoulder, cold and strange -- not quite solid.
"Don't do it," a voice said. Harry didn't turn around. "You'll need that hand."
He breathed deep. It was Sirius, but he knew that if he turned around Sirius would not be there. He could tell from the way his voice sounded that the knife's -- spell, charm, power, whatever it was -- was already fading.
He forcibly unclenched his hand, spreading his fingers and pressing them to the wall instead.
"Maybe you can hear me. I heard what Diggory told you," Sirius added. "Put it out of your mind. Go to Ginny," he finished, and the hand on his shoulder faded away.
He was, quite suddenly, filled with the urge to see Ginny, to get out of St. Mungo's and away from the ward where Amos sat staring out a window all day. It wasn't simply that Sirius had said he should; somehow it was sinking deep into him, permeating his skin.
Ginny would be at practice right now, and the team frowned on family interrupting practice. He shrugged off his official robes and took the pocketwatch Arthur had given him out of his trouser-pocket, checking it. She'd be out soon; enough time to run an errand first.
There was an owl-post office not far from the hospital; Harry had learned the locations of most of the offices in London. As useful as owls were, Harry had lost the taste for keeping one after Hedwig was killed, and if he really needed to send something fast there was always the floo or a short-distance Patronus message. Still, as a courier service, nothing beat owls.
When he arrived he pulled a sheet of parchment towards him and grabbed one of the scratchy public-use quills, scribbling a short letter.
Neville,
Thanks for the help. This was really interesting reading. I've added some notes with the help of a research assistant and I'm sending the whole thing back to you.
After you publish, ask Hermione about getting to be a member of the Literary Society of Wizarding London. Reckon you won't have any trouble getting in.
Harry.
He reached into the pocket of his robes, slung carelessly on the counter, and took out the rolled-up bundle of notes, tying the letter around it and blotchily scrawling "Professor Neville Longbottom, Hogwarts School" on the outside.
"That one, please," he said to the attendant, who took down a long-distance barn owl tagged "Extra Vicious" for anti-tampering security. Harry paid for the paper and postage, made sure the twine tying the scroll was tightly knotted, and sent the letter off.
He would go to Ginny, take her to dinner, and forget Amos Diggory's scarred skin and empty eyes, if only for a little while.
There were times when you had to listen to your ghosts.
Continue to the next part
imaginarycircus for the beta-read. Hermione's presence in this chapter, entirely due to her. Chapter Five: The Scholar And The Madman
The offices of MLE broadly encompassed both the Aurors and the Wizengamot, as well as the Misuse of Muggle Artifacts Office, the Improper Use of Magic Office, and the Magical Law Enforcement Squad, among others. It employed a sizeable majority of the people who worked in the Ministry, and it threw together people from all walks of life, particularly when it came to the MLE canteen. The Aurors had their own cubbyhole to eat in, as did most offices, but the big, echoing canteen was the only place you could actually buy a sandwich or a bowl of soup unless you wanted to take your life in your hands and go out to Diagon Alley at lunchtime.
Harry sat at one of the dozens of small tables in the canteen, chin propped in one hand, picking at the lunch he'd bought with the other. He waited while Hermione paged through the notes Neville had given him, occasionally taking a bite of her sandwich.
"Neville's got very neat penmanship," she said absently. "That surprised me at school -- I expected he'd chickenscratch like you and Ron do."
"I don't chickenscratch!" Harry said. Hermione glanced at him sardonically over the top of the parchment.
"These diagrams are rather well done, wonder if he used a drafting charm," she continued. "He must be thinking of doing a paper on the Sword of Gryffindor. Maybe on Goblin craftsmanship in general."
"That's what I thought," Harry said. "There's loads of references, but they're all really obscure books. I thought you might have a few. I made a booklist at the end."
Hermione turned to the last page, nodding. "Yes, you won't find these at Flourish and Blotts. Poor Neville, we always underestimate him, but this is some extremely well-done research. Harry..."
"Yeah?" Harry asked, sensing there was a lecture coming.
"Not that it's any of my business, except as someone who cares about your well-being, but don't you think you're missing the point?" she asked.
"What point?" he said. "I saw the Sword of Gryffindor when I know I couldn't have, and I want to know whether it's actually in two places at once, or that's some kind of illusion, or I'm just going mad."
"Nice to know you're considering every angle," Hermione said with a smile.
"It's just, and say if I've misread this, Neville seems to think the sword can exist in two places at once. Which means maybe what I saw is real," Harry said.
"Do you want them to be real, Harry?" Hermione asked.
"What?" Harry said, sitting up.
"Well, it's just..." she set the papers down, glancing at him and then glancing away. "It seems to me like you're distracting yourself -- looking for proofs that are pretty much based on could be. If I were you -- "
Harry groaned, and she sighed.
" -- if I were you, I'd be following the dagger. That's what's going to tell you what all this is," she finished.
"Demystification has the dagger now, they'll run plenty of tests," Harry said.
"What do you know about it?" Hermione asked.
"Not a whole lot, it's only just gone in. Well, Broderick mentioned the last man who owned it was Amos Diggory."
"Cedric's father?" Hermione asked, startled. "That's a little odd, isn't it? What would he be doing with a dark artefact?"
"That's sort of what I wondered," Harry replied. "He's in St. Mungo's now. Probably the Janus Thickey ward. You know the one."
"What happened to him?"
"Dunno." Harry shrugged. "Broderick says he went mad."
"Harry, don't you think that's important? You should find out if the dagger is connected."
"FDI will figure it out," Harry insisted. Hermione gave him a Look. "They will!"
"And since when have you been one to wait patiently for information to come to you? You could find out some real information, and instead you're stringing yourself along, researching the Sword of Gryffindor."
Harry looked down at his hands, picking at a fingernail idly.
"I suppose I don't blame you if you don't want to go to St. Mungo's," Hermione relented. "One visit to the long-term ward's enough to put anyone off it for life."
"Yeah, well, if I go, they might want to keep me," Harry muttered.
"Not feeling your sanest?" Hermione asked.
"I'm not sleeping well," he admitted. "I keep waking up expecting to see someone standing over my bed. You were there when we visited the ward, Hermione -- you remember Gilderoy Lockhart. Spend too much time in a place like that and you forget which direction sanity is. And there's no actual harm in researching the sword, it's very interesting. Anyway, I'm not supposed to be running around on Auror business," he added.
"As if that's stopped you in the past," she replied. "I'm only saying this as a friend, Harry. It's your choice, of course, and if you want to chase after the Sword of Gryffindor I can help. It's only that I worry you're putting off the inevitable. You're not going to feel really secure until you know what the dagger actually does."
Harry sat silently, trying to formulate a response. Before he could, a hand touched his shoulder lightly.
"Good afternoon, Harry," said Kingsley Shacklebolt, a tray of food held in one hand. "Hello, Hermione."
"Minister," Harry said, standing as per Auror custom. Hermione smiled and stayed seated.
"Sit, sit. I hear you're still recuperating," Kingsley continued. A small group of witches and wizards paused just past their table, obviously waiting for him. Harry sat down, nodding to Arthur at the back of the group.
"Doing all right, sir," he said.
"I'm pleased to hear it. Can't stay away from the Ministry, hm?"
Harry heard an undertone in Kingsley's voice that made the question a little more volatile than it sounded. "Pet project. Hermione's helping me with some research."
"I see. And when are you back?"
"Little under a week," Harry said.
"Excellent. I'd stay and speak with you more, but I'm keeping people waiting," Kingsley said. "I'll see you this afternoon, Hermione. Look after yourself, Harry."
Harry turned back to Hermione as Kingsley joined his party again, moving toward the large table near the middle of the room that was reserved for the Minister. "Why're you meeting with the Minister this afternoon?"
"House-Elf Advisory Council's assembling to discuss policy," Hermione said.
"Yeah, HEAC -- the noise that follows SPEW," Harry grinned.
"You can laugh all you want, but I think we're making headway. Anyway, I should go and prep our presentation for the meeting. But," Hermione added, neatly reassembling Neville's notes, "if you're really serious about doing more research on the sword..."
"Yeah, I am," Harry replied.
"All right. I'll owl a friend of mine at the Literary Society, he might be able to help you. He can get you into the library, anyway, and show you around a bit."
"Get me into the library?" Harry asked. "What, do I need a special pass now?"
"For this one, you do," Hermione answered, smiling. She kissed him on the cheek as she handed the parchment over. "Try to rest. And take your sandwich with you," she added, pointing at the barely-touched meal on Harry's plate. Harry folded the paper wrapper around it and shoved it in his pocket.
"I will," he said. She nodded, but she still looked worried. "I'm fine, Hermione, really."
"I hope so," she replied.
***
Harry should have known that Hermione, let loose on the wizarding world, wouldn't only belong to the public magical lending libraries; all the really dangerous (and thus really interesting) books were housed in subscription libraries, closed to the public without special pass. Even the famous Harry Potter had to get a member to vouch for him before he could be let in.
"I'm meeting someone here," he said to the clerk in the small, claustrophobic foyer of the Literary Society of Wizarding London. He took a letter from Hermione out of his pocket. "Elias Gordon?"
"Is that Mr. Potter?" a voice drifted out from another room. "Just a second, I'm putting away my books. It's all right, Whyte, I'll vouch for him."
The clerk looked at Harry suspiciously. "Fill out this card," he barked. "I'll need identification."
Harry had the perverse desire to push his hair off his forehead and show off the scar; everyone else seemed to identify him that way. Instead, he took his Auror badge and licence card out of his pocket and laid them on the table, putting down his name and address on the card.
"Thank you, Mr. Potter," the man said, sounding unimpressed. "Empty your pockets, please. Your belongings will be locked in a safebox; I'll bring you the key."
"Wand too?" Harry asked. "And I have some research notes..."
"Wand and notes are okay. No quills or ink, you'll be provided with non-staining ink and special quills."
Harry dumped the contents of his pockets into the box, watching as the clerk picked them over.
"Ring of keys, three-galleons-five-knuts, two lollies -- "
"Godson," Harry said.
" -- Auror-issue parchment pad, portable quill, and a sandwich." The clerk picked up the half-open wrapper, studying it. "Day old, unless I miss my guess."
Harry felt his face turn red. "You can throw that out."
"Just so." He dropped it fastidiously into a bin at his feet and closed the lid of the box, disappearing into a doorway behind his desk. As he did so, another man emerged from a second doorway, dusting off his sleeves.
"Mr. Potter, it is a pleasure," he said, offering one hand. "I'm Elias Gordon."
"Thanks," Harry replied, taking it. He found his fingers held tightly as the man turned his hand over, studying the scar on its back.
"So it's true," he smiled at Harry. "You never tell lies."
"We all tell lies," Harry murmured, pulling back.
"My apologies -- I'm a curious man, and I forget my manners, spending all this time around books. Ms. Granger said you were in need of a native guide, so here I am."
The clerk reappeared with a small metal band and a key, handing the key to Harry. "Your wand, please, Mr. Potter."
"Does everyone who comes here go through this?" Harry asked, passing over his wand. The clerk slid the little metal ring down the wand, securing it snugly.
"No," Gordon replied. "Members are given freer access than guests."
"Well, how much to become a member?"
Gordon exchanged an amused look with the clerk, who chuckled. "It's not about money, Mr. Potter," the clerk said. "This is a scholars' library. Now, this ring will restrict your spell casting ability to charms which do not damage the books and materials in the library."
"Uh, thanks," Harry said, sliding the wand up his sleeve.
"Ink, paper, and quills in the next room, next to the card catalogue. Enjoy your research."
"What did he mean, it's not about money?" Harry asked, as Gordon led him through a doorway into another small room, filled with pots of ink and parchment at one end, a towering card catalogue at the other. "What's it about, if it's not about the fee?"
Gordon handed him a quill and an inkpot. "The fee is nominal, paid yearly after one is confirmed as a member. Confirmation requires testimonials from three members in good standing. Generally, you also must be published in two or three academic journals or make a significant contribution to the intellectual welfare of wizardkind."
Harry blinked. "And Hermione did all that?"
"She is what's known as a provisional member. She had the references -- Horace Slughorn arranged that -- but she hasn't been published yet."
"It's still pretty impressive," Harry said.
"She is a unique young woman," Gordon replied. "It's been a pleasure being her sponsor."
"Do you work here?" Harry asked.
"Not precisely. I'm a research scholar; I do my work here, and an older member is always assigned to be a guide to the new blood. Shall we?"
Harry eyed the card catalogue apprehensively. Gordon grinned.
"I'll show you the library, and we will use that behemoth only as needed." He opened another door and gestured Harry through.
Stepping into the library itself was like moving into a whole different world. It was a complete release from the two grubby cubbyholes at the entryway; the ceiling rose high above, and the cooling charms ensured that the yellow sunlight streaming through the glass windows didn't affect the books. Here and there, elderly library members climbed ladders or stood talking in small knots or drowsed in corners. Harry felt oddly young, in amongst the aged scholars.
"You will need to explain to me what you've come here to find," Gordon continued, strolling idly toward the windows. "Ms. Granger's owl was vague on the subject. She said you'd tell me what you wanted me to know. Do you have a book-list?"
Harry reached into his pocket and took out Neville's notes, separating the last page from the rest. "Here's the ones I'd like to see, and these others are just sort of...general subjects," he added, a little intimidated by the older man's scholarly scrutiny.
"H'm. Godric Gryffindor; Hogwarts - Historic; Armaments - Magical," Gordon read the subjects aloud to himself. "Are you researching Gryffindor?"
"Not exactly," Harry said.
"Legendary Hogwarts? The heroic archetype in modern mythopoesis?"
"Modern what?" Harry asked.
"I suppose not. Why don't you tell me what you're searching for. As much as you're comfortable with," he added hastily.
"I'm looking up the Sword of Gryffindor," Harry said. "It's...um, a sword."
Gordon gave him a dry look. "Belonging to Godric Gryffindor, perchance?"
"Not anymore." Harry grinned impudently. Gordon chuckled.
"Word of it has reached us even here, Mr. Potter; we do read newspapers, and I recall some little debate breaking out in our circle over whether beheading large serpents was really a proper use for such an artefact. And why are you researching it?"
"To know more about it?" Harry ventured.
"That's a refreshing answer from someone so young and so famous," Gordon said. "These aren't your notes, I take it? They don't look like Ms. Granger's handwriting."
"I got them off a friend -- well, Neville, he's still got the sword."
"I see. So we aren't searching for the thing itself, then. I understand it tends to...come and go."
"Not exactly. See..." Harry hesitated. Hermione obviously thought this man was trustworthy, and he seemed harmless enough, but long habit made him cautious. "What do you know about the sword?"
Gordon tapped the rolled-up booklist against his lips. "Goblin-made, supposedly comes to the aid of a hero who needs it. I'm certain the Goblins are thrilled that it keeps disappearing. I don't think much has been written on it, really. Wizards prefer wands to swords."
"Well, Neville has some theories about why it does that. Disappear, I mean."
"Nothing I like better than a theory. Tell me how I can help," Gordon replied. Harry hesitated again. "Mr. Potter, I can only be of so much assistance if I'm lacking in facts. Certainly you're not obliged to tell me the secrets of your soul, but I can assure you that this search is strictly academic to me."
Stung that Gordon had seen through him so cleanly, Harry clenched Neville's notes. "He thinks that the sword doesn't totally exist," he said, a little louder than he'd intended, trying to startle the other man.
"Despite having once used it to behead a serpent?" Gordon asked, looking almost amused. "How doesn't it exist?"
Harry took one of the pages of notes out of the stack and offered it to him. "He thinks that the sword has a soul."
It was Gordon's turn to hesitate. He moved forward, but his body leaned as if he were trying not to come any closer to the notes.
"Let me be plain," Gordon said softly. "This holds no practical interest for me; I study for the joy of studying, Mr. Potter, and I leave the practical application of my work to others. I believe in the free exchange of ideas, but I also believe that some ideas are better left fallow. If you are hunting a Horcrux, I want nothing more to do with it."
"How do you know what a Horcrux is?" Harry asked, startled. "If Hermione -- "
"No, she's never spoken of them. I told you -- I'm a scholar. Knowing things is our business," Gordon said. "The question is, how does the Boy Who Lived come by such knowledge? After all, rumours abound that you died and came back to life. Isn't that what the Skeeter woman wrote in her wretched biography? That you are The Boy Who Lived And Died And Lived Again?"
Harry jerked his arm forward and his wand slid out of his sleeve. He pressed it subtly to Gordon's chest. People moved in and out of the stacks around them, speaking in whispers; he didn't want to make a scene in front of the entire library.
"Are you implying I made a Horcrux?" he asked hoarsely.
"That won't work in here," Gordon said casually, not bothering to brush the wand aside. "You're restricted, and murder is definitely on the forbidden list in the library."
He stepped backwards, and Harry lowered his wand. One or two people stared. Gordon swallowed, not quite as cool as he had pretended to be, and continued.
"I take it the implication that you have made a Horcrux offends you; I'm offended by the very concept of their existence. But if you didn't make one, Mr. Potter, how do you know what one is?"
Harry wanted to lean forward and ask the man how he thought Voldemort survived to rise again, but he didn't; the promise to Dumbledore was still strong on his conscience.
"You fight the darkness, you learn about what's in it," he said instead, shoving his wand back up his sleeve. "Which isn't the point."
"Then do tell me, what is?"
"Why should I trust you?" Harry asked.
"Because you have seen that I am capable of being silent when I wish, and speaking when I must?" Gordon raised an eyebrow. "You might have been a warrior, but they also serve who only stand and wait. We fought on your side in our own way, with words and books and debate, and some of the finest minds of the Society now grace the offices of the Ministry. If you can't trust me, I see no way through to assisting you; if you can, rest assured your secrets will not leave these walls."
Harry looked up at the older man, considering. Hermione wouldn't have asked just anyone to help him, and Gordon seemed sincere. It wasn't as if he had to tell him about what he'd seen, and if he could keep quiet about a Horcrux...
"The Sword of Gryffindor isn't a horcrux," he said.
"I gathered, from your horror of the thing."
"Its soul is its own. That's the theory, anyway. The sword lives in this...world, I guess, and the soul of the sword lives in another place. That's why it can travel, apparently -- be where it needs to be."
"What do you want to know about it, if you know all that?" Gordon asked.
"How it happens. Where you'd find the soul. If it's possible to see it. How the sword knows when it's needed." Harry frowned. "I believe in Neville's theory, but I want to know more about it."
"Very well." Gordon looked up at the ceiling, then to his left. "It's just as well you're with me; the books you want are in another room, and the doorways tend to come and go without warning. The library knows you're a visitor and it likes to play tricks with the guests. Come along."
He took off at a brisk pace through the stacks. Harry followed as they made their way deep into the shelves and then up a spiral staircase, out onto a walkway overlooking the atrium where they'd just been standing.
"The catwalks connect all the rooms in a fixed position, so they're more stable than the ground-floor doors," Gordon said, tapping the railing. "Solid iron, very useful for fixing locations."
He strode down another row of shelves and through a doorway, into a room that looked identical to the other one except that the walls and floor were done in shades of blue, instead of the black and white marble of the central room.
"You want Quantum Metaphysics," Gordon said, stopping occasionally to check strange, encoded signs on each shelf. He took a book off one of them and handed it to Harry. "Magical metallurgy, that'll be a help...history of Goblin Culture..."
Harry watched, somewhat bemused, as Gordon began pulling books off of shelves seemingly at random, piling some on his own arm and handing some to Harry. He spoke quietly as he worked, apparently having forgotten that Harry had been threatening him ten minutes earlier.
"What you want to know is the complex charmwork involved in inanimate animation, non-physical matter transference, and magical metallurgy," he said thoughtfully, studying a book and then discarding it on a cart. "Specifically the Founders-era theories, because that's when the sword was made, is it not? I don't concieve of Godric Gryffindor picking up a magical souled sword in a second-hand shop and declaring it his."
"Probably," Harry said, though Gordon had already moved on. He followed quickly. "You enjoy this, huh?"
"I wouldn't do it for a living if I didn't," Gordon replied. "You're an Auror, aren't you?"
"Yeah."
"Well, to each his own. You couldn't pay me to do your job. I prefer Dark Wizards who died hundreds of years ago; they never fire back." He led Harry to a long, smooth wooden table, hidden in the midst of the shelves, and set down his books, taking Harry's as well. "I can leave you to your studies, if you'd prefer, but I must admit I'm intrigued. Would you care to have some help?"
He gestured at the large pile of books on the table, which suddenly looked very foreboding.
"Please," Harry said in a small voice. Gordon threw himself into a chair enthusiastically and opened a book.
Harry spent the afternoon buried in textbooks and research, something he hadn't done since his first year of Auror training. Gordon didn't seem to know much more than Harry about what the books actually contained, even though he knew where to find them, and Harry was glad to have someone muddling through with him. They both took notes, Gordon more enthusiastically than Harry; the pile of parchment slowly grew, and once they had to summon a few more rolls from the supply room below.
As the shadows began to lengthen, Gordon closed one book and looked up.
"I've gleaned all I can from these volumes; how are you faring?"
Harry shrugged. "I think I've got all I'm going to. I'm not sure I can get my head all the way round it, but it's a distraction."
There was a pause.
"From what?" Gordon asked. Harry frowned. "Ah. Well, you've known me all of four hours, so I won't press." He began to stack the books as Harry rolled up the old parchment notes along with the new.
"I appreciate the help," Harry said.
"It was my pleasure." Gordon offered him his notes. "Though if I may suggest..."
"Yeah?"
"What we've found here are interesting proofs and flourishes for Mr. Longbottom's theories, and I'm sure he'll appreciate that. But a scholar's goal is to build upon what comes before, not simply confirm it. Whatever this is...distracting from, it seems that there is an avenue of research you may be ignoring."
"That's what Hermione said," Harry sighed.
"She's a smart woman. I suggest you follow her advice. Certainly if you need access to the library again, you're welcome to use my name; if I'm available, I'm happy to help."
Harry smiled grimly. "I have a feeling the library isn't where I need to go next."
"That may be the case. Good luck in your studies, Mr. Potter."
"Thank you, Mr. Gordon," Harry said, offering his hand again. Gordon shook it, ignoring the scars this time.
***
In Harry's experience, books -- while useful -- had never been a good substitute for firsthand experience and random chance. He knew Hermione would hate to hear him say that, but Harry wasn't as good as she was at distilling down what he needed to know and acting on it. He needed to talk to people, to ask questions, to dive in. He'd been avoiding it, but you couldn't avoid it forever. And Hermione and Gordon were right that he needed to expand his research.
So, despite all his fear of the place and all the warnings in his head telling him not to, he went to St. Mungo's the next morning.
He reckoned that if Amos Diggory had been in St. Mungo's a while, he was probably in the Janus Thickey ward, where Neville's parents were. He knew where it was, and his official robes and Auror's badge were be sufficient to get him in.
"What on earth did the poor soul do?" the mediwitch asked him, when he presented himself and asked to see Amos Diggory. "There were two of you here just a few days ago to see him. He's kept quite secure, you know."
"Just a follow-up, ma'am," Harry said. "I had a few more questions for Mr. Diggory."
"You aren't from FDI, are you?" she asked, squinting at him.
"The Demystification squad? No," Harry answered.
"Good. Those two set him off something awful, it took the whole afternoon to calm him down. I suppose they warned you about him, though."
"Warned me?" Harry asked, as she took a ring of keys from her belt and led him down the hall.
"About Amos? We're all used to him, of course," she said, unlocking one of the doors. Harry thought he saw a face in the window of one of the others; he wondered if it was Frank Longbottom. "Here you are. I should warn you I intend to stand right here and if he makes any noise at all, it'll be the end of your interview, Auror or not."
"I'll do my best not to upset him," Harry promised, and meant every word. She opened the door and he stepped into a sunny, cheerful room with a single bed on it.
A figure sat in a chair near a window, gazing out onto the rolling grass of the St. Mungo's grounds. He didn't look up when Harry entered.
"Mr. Diggory," Harry said softly. Still no movement. "I've come to ask you some questions. May I sit down?"
One hand, resting on the table next to the chair, unfolded slightly. Harry took it as an invitation, but halfway to the other chair he stopped in his tracks.
From here he could see Cedric's father more clearly, and he could see why the mediwitch had asked if he'd been warned. Long, thin scars criscrossed Diggory's arms and hands, a network of raised white ridges that began at his fingertips and distorted the muscle and flesh up to where his arms disappeared into the short sleeves of his hospital pyjamas. They continued at the edge of his collar, across his shoulders and collarbones. One leg of his trousers was hitched, and the scars there looked deeper, more desperate. There were bumpy nicks along the curve of his ear. The only untouched part of him seemed to be his face, and that was haggard and grim, eyes deep-set in their sockets. Diggory turned his face slightly, eyes sweeping over Harry with only dim recognition.
"Do you remember me, Mr. Diggory?" Harry asked.
"Yes," Diggory replied. "Potter."
"That's right. How are they treating you here at the hospital?"
"Well," Diggory said.
"What happened to your arms?"
The man covered his left arm with his hand, tugging on the sleeves of the shirt. "Nothing," he mumbled. Harry sat cautiously, and Diggory turned back to the window.
"I understand some people came to talk to you," Harry said conversationally. "They came to ask about an artefact you used to own."
"My knife," Diggory said.
"That's right. A little gold knife? You sold it a little while ago, right?"
"He took it from me," Amos growled, and Harry held up his hands in a calming gesture.
"We're looking into that. Did you tell them about it?"
"No," Diggory said. "They were crude children. My Cedric will thrash them when he hears."
Harry raised his eyebrows. "Cedric, your son?"
"Yes." Silence for a moment. Then, "You were the one who brought his body back, weren't you?"
"I was," Harry agreed. "It was his last request. So...you know your son is dead, Mr. Diggory?"
"Yes," Amos said. "That's why I need my knife, don't you see? I need it!"
"Shh-hshhh," Harry hissed. "Why do you need your knife, Amos?"
"It helps me," Amos whispered. "Don't tell anyone."
"I won't," Harry said. "I just want to understand."
"The woman who sold it to me," Amos said. "She told me I could see my son again. It would help me."
Harry felt his thoughts race. "Did it?"
"No!" It was an almost agonised howl, though it wasn't enough to bring the mediwitch barging in. "I saw...so many things..."
Amos absently drew his thumbnail up his arm, following the path of one of the scars, and Harry realised what they were -- he had cut himself with the knife, just like the shopkeeper had cut Harry. Trying to see ghosts. Trying to see his son again.
"I saw so many people, but Cedric wouldn't come to me," Amos said, tears beginning to roll down his face. "Please tell him I'm not angry at him!"
"It's all right, I'm sure he knows," Harry said, aghast and upset. "Maybe he...got delayed," he added, knowing how lame it sounded.
"Nothing would stop Cedric from coming to me if he really wanted," Amos' voice trembled. "But they took my knife from me. So I tried with a new knife, but it didn't work at all, I couldn't even see the others anymore..."
"What others?" Harry asked.
"You don't know," Amos turned to him violently. "You don't know! What do you know about ghosts? I saw them! Dozens of them! Nobody else did! You don't know!"
"Okay, okay, I don't know. Explain it to me," Harry soothed.
"I can't," Amos whimpered. "I don't have my knife."
Harry watched the wreck of a man collapse in on himself, weeping, and he didn't venture to ask any more questions. Cedric's father had been cheerful with his son and stern in his duties; four -- six -- was it seven years already? Seven years ago he had seen what the death of a child could do to a man. He had been fourteen and he'd never thought to check on Amos, to see how he and his wife were doing after Cedric's murder.
"Amos," Harry said softly. He had what he'd come for; the least he could do was try to give the man some peace of mind. He rose from the chair and crouched in front of Amos, touching his hands for permission before taking one slim, scarred hand in his. "Amos, let me tell you something."
There was no reply, so he continued.
"I am sure that if it was possible for Cedric to see you, he would," he said. "And I promise you will see him again."
"When?" Amos asked, his eyes lighting up.
"Not for a little while. Maybe a few years," Harry replied, guessing at his age and his obviously fast-deteriorating health. "He can't come see you right now, but he's waiting for you."
"How do you know?"
"I just do," Harry said. "So you don't need your knife anymore, all right? You just need to be patient."
"Really?" Amos whispered. Harry felt oddly as if he were talking to Teddy or Victoire -- a small child with utter faith in him.
Merlin knew, Amos Diggory's faith in Harry Potter was misplaced, but if it would give Amos some peace after what he'd done to himself, then Harry would use it anyway.
"Really," he said. "I should go now. Thank you, Amos."
Amos smiled at him, but after a second or two the smile faded; Harry was no longer part of whatever reality Amos Diggory now lived in, and he went back to staring aimlessly out the window as if the young Auror wasn't even there.
"I appreciate your time," Harry said to the mediwitch, as she locked the door behind him and led him back down the hall. "Mr. Diggory was very helpful."
"Well, I'm glad to see someone finally handling him like he isn't a criminal," she said severely.
"Can I ask you a question?" he said.
"Me? I don't know anything about whatever it is you're investigating, I'm sure."
"No, not that. Just about Mr. Diggory. I know he was married," Harry drew a deep breath. "Do you know what happened to his wife?"
The woman frowned. "She died, I believe. I know she was Muggleborn and so many were caught up in the sweeps the Ministry did...you know. Back then. And of course that couldn't have been long after they lost their son. It was just too much for one man to bear, I'm sure."
"Probably so," Harry murmured. "Thank you, again. I don't think anyone else will bother him."
He felt his hands clenching into fists as he walked away, and he was grateful that the stairwell he used to descend to the ground floor was empty. The sound of his boots echoed chaotically back at him from all sides. He didn't want to think about what it meant that he had seen Sirius and Remus and Tonks when Amos couldn't see his own son; he didn't want to think about the idea that if he got hold of the knife again he might go the way Diggory went.
Losing his son had nearly crushed him. Harry recalled that much. But he'd had his wife...until he lost her to those idiots at the Ministry during the war. Small wonder he'd been dying for whatever comfort he could get. Nearly had died, by the look of those scars.
Harry leaned against the cold cement wall on the ground floor, one hand drawing back to punch it. Before he could, he felt a touch on his shoulder, cold and strange -- not quite solid.
"Don't do it," a voice said. Harry didn't turn around. "You'll need that hand."
He breathed deep. It was Sirius, but he knew that if he turned around Sirius would not be there. He could tell from the way his voice sounded that the knife's -- spell, charm, power, whatever it was -- was already fading.
He forcibly unclenched his hand, spreading his fingers and pressing them to the wall instead.
"Maybe you can hear me. I heard what Diggory told you," Sirius added. "Put it out of your mind. Go to Ginny," he finished, and the hand on his shoulder faded away.
He was, quite suddenly, filled with the urge to see Ginny, to get out of St. Mungo's and away from the ward where Amos sat staring out a window all day. It wasn't simply that Sirius had said he should; somehow it was sinking deep into him, permeating his skin.
Ginny would be at practice right now, and the team frowned on family interrupting practice. He shrugged off his official robes and took the pocketwatch Arthur had given him out of his trouser-pocket, checking it. She'd be out soon; enough time to run an errand first.
There was an owl-post office not far from the hospital; Harry had learned the locations of most of the offices in London. As useful as owls were, Harry had lost the taste for keeping one after Hedwig was killed, and if he really needed to send something fast there was always the floo or a short-distance Patronus message. Still, as a courier service, nothing beat owls.
When he arrived he pulled a sheet of parchment towards him and grabbed one of the scratchy public-use quills, scribbling a short letter.
Neville,
Thanks for the help. This was really interesting reading. I've added some notes with the help of a research assistant and I'm sending the whole thing back to you.
After you publish, ask Hermione about getting to be a member of the Literary Society of Wizarding London. Reckon you won't have any trouble getting in.
Harry.
He reached into the pocket of his robes, slung carelessly on the counter, and took out the rolled-up bundle of notes, tying the letter around it and blotchily scrawling "Professor Neville Longbottom, Hogwarts School" on the outside.
"That one, please," he said to the attendant, who took down a long-distance barn owl tagged "Extra Vicious" for anti-tampering security. Harry paid for the paper and postage, made sure the twine tying the scroll was tightly knotted, and sent the letter off.
He would go to Ginny, take her to dinner, and forget Amos Diggory's scarred skin and empty eyes, if only for a little while.
There were times when you had to listen to your ghosts.
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