sam_storyteller | Harry Potter and the Legion of Ghosts: Ch. 6

Chapter Six: So Pretty A Toy

"Ginny! Your girlfriend's here!"

The clubhouse of the Holyhead Harpies was an inner sanctum for the team, trumped only by the (much mythologised) locker room. For all its archaic traditions, the magical world had reached a kind of gender equity centuries ago that the Muggle world was still struggling towards; that didn't stop a lot of male Quidditch fans from harboring dreams about an invisibility cloak and ten minutes in the all-female Harpies changing room. Most would give their left arm even to be where Harry was, pushing through the crowd of young, athetic women who stood at the bar next to the trophy case. A few other boyfriends lifted their butterbeers in greeting.

"You're just jealous," Harry said to Anabella Stickstraw, who was a third-generation Chaser for the Harpies and could have flattened Harry with her bare hands.

"Jealous?" she asked skeptically as Harry slid an arm around Ginny's waist.

"Yeah, 'cause my bum's nicer than yours," he replied, and even Anabella grinned at this. "How was practice?"

"Miriam broke her nose," Ginny said.

"Merlin, really?"

"Imabvisable dibe," Miriam said. Her nose looked all right to Harry, but she spoke as if she had a slight head cold. "Righd indo a bludder. I'b ogay."

"Glad to hear it," Harry said. "Ready for the game next week?"

"Doesn't take much to be ready to beat the Cannons," Anabella sniffed. "You coming, Potter?"

"Wouldn't miss it. Got to be neutral, though; Ginny's brother is a die-hard Cannons fan."

"Harry!" Ginny looked annoyed. "I was trying to keep that out of general circulation."

"We all have crazy relatives," Liane Jones said. She was a second-string Seeker, smaller than anyone else on the team but lightning-quick. She and Harry had bonded once over the new Nimbus Streak model broomstick, and she was constantly trying to get him to come back and play professionally. "We won't hold it against you, Gins. Much."

"Thanks," Ginny drawled. "Hey, I didn't know you were coming today," she added to Harry. "What's up?"

"Just wanted to see you," Harry replied. A handful of Ginny's team-mates cooed sarcastically. "Thought you might like to get dinner."

"Oh -- yeah, I would, it's just..." she gestured at the other women. "We were going to have a strategy meeting. I can get notes from someone if you really want to..."

Harry caught Anabella's disapproving look over Ginny's shoulder, and shook his head. "Quidditch first. Tell you what, I'll get something to eat and meet you at the Hollow later?"

"Thanks," she said, beaming at him. He kissed her cheek and then took her hand, kissing the engagement ring on her finger. He'd wanted to get her a diamond, but she wanted something she could wear in play -- so instead she had a steel band, hard and durable, which seemed oddly appropriate.

"He's so domestic," he heard someone say, as he walked out of the clubhouse. "How'd you train him, Gins?"

"Regular beatings," Ginny answered before the door shut, and Harry grinned.

He picked up a bottle of wine along with a bag of Indian take-away in Diagon, and had just finished opening the bottle when Ginny arrived by floo. She took a glass gratefully and flopped onto the sofa, red hair coming loose in flyaways from her untidy braid.

"Meeting go well?" he asked, kissing her shoulder.

"Very strategic," she replied. "Thanks for understanding."

"I've done it to you for Auror business often enough." Harry put his wineglass down on the end-table and settled one arm around Ginny's shoulders. "Back to the Ministry for me pretty soon, my two weeks are almost up. Maybe I can weasel Ron off desk duty somehow."

"He likes complaining."

"He always did, but it must be pretty tedious for him. And think how awful it'll be if he has to sit there and watch me go off to have adventures without him."

"Who're you marrying, me or him?" Ginny asked, grinning. Harry tugged on her braid. "Hey!"

"You," Harry said. "Of course, you."

Ginny rested a hand on his stomach, fingers curling slightly. "Mum's been talking to me about the wedding."

"Way to kill the mood, Weasley," Harry groaned.

"I promised her and Dad I'd talk about it with you. Mum wants to know -- I think it's Dad's idea really -- if you want to have any Muggle parts in the ceremony. You were practically brought up Muggle, and they thought you might be more comfortable with some Muggle bits."

"Can't think why, I never went to any weddings except Bill's when I was growing up," Harry said. "Tell them thanks, though."

Ginny leaned her head on his shoulder. "You're sure?"

"Sure. I'm happy with a Wizarding ceremony." Harry sipped his wine with his free hand. "Gins, I need to tell you something."

"Mm?" she asked.

"I know people don't always think I'm the sanest person, but you and Ron and Hermione've always stood by me, even when maybe I actually wasn't. Sane, I mean. I put you through a lot, I know that, but I thought it was over when the war ended. It's just..." Harry frowned. "All these things are coming up again, and I don't know what to think about them. I went to see Amos Diggory at St. Mungo's today. Turns out he's the one who had the knife, the one I got cut with."

Ginny nodded against his shoulder.

"He says he saw things too. I don't know if they're real or not. Maybe not. I just wanted you to know. When I go back to the Aurors they're going to have me see a Mentalist, just in case...I do start acting a little mad again."

He glanced down at her to see her reaction, but she hadn't moved.

"Ginny?" he asked. Silence. "Gins?"

There was a soft breath, almost like a sigh. Harry tilted his head back, torn between laughter and annoyance. She'd fallen asleep on his shoulder.

"Serve me right for trying to tell you all this after practice," he said, kissing her ear and setting his wine on the end-table. "Come on..."

"I was listening," Ginny said sleepily, as he lifted himself off the sofa and half-hoisted her as well, one arm under her shoulders.

"Mm-hm. You're exhausted, my fault," he answered. "Let me put you to bed, okay?"

"Oh, do," she said, nuzzling his neck.

"Now you want to...? If I didn't know better I'd say you were using me for my body, Weasley," he scolded.

"S'just a perk," she mumbled, as he led her down the hallway, past the kitchen to the bedroom. "I'm really marrying you 'cause you're famous."

"It's hard to be Harry Potter," Harry said, leaving her to undress while he pulled the blankets back on the bed. She grabbed him from behind and kissed his neck.

"Sorry," she said, pressing her cheek to his shoulder. "I swear, tell me tomorrow and I'll listen."

He turned and pulled her down onto the bed with him, ruffling her hair.

"It's not that important," he replied, and really it didn't seem so important, suddenly. "Don't worry about it."

***

"Well," Broderick said, apparently in better humour than he had been the day Harry had confessed to him, "Ready for duty again, eh, Potter?"

"Yessir," Harry said, hands folded in his lap, Auror robes perfectly pressed but already beginning to rumple again. "Reckon I could have come back sooner, but you know Healers."

"Regrettably, I do. You look tired."

"I'm ready for duty, though," Harry insisted.

"Good. I'm sure your comrades will be waiting to welcome you back with some amusing jest or other, but I wanted to speak to you first," Broderick said, paging through a report on his desk. "I'm hesitant to put you on active duty immediately. I'd like to hear what the Mentalist has to say about you first. On the other hand, the longer you're off-duty, the longer it will take you to settle in again. You see my dilemma, and we already have Weasley on desk for another two weeks."

Harry groaned inwardly at Ron's predicament, but he also jumped at the opportunity he was being presented.

"I think I have a solution, sir, if you'd like to hear it," he said.

"Do tell. I'm all ears," Broderick drawled.

"I've been to speak with Amos Diggory," Harry began. Broderick's fingers rapped a tattoo on the table, and he paused.

"You were told not to work for two weeks," the supervisor said.

"Yeah, well, FDI didn't know how to handle him, and the mediwitches didn't like it. I got the inside story," Harry retorted.

"And did you file a report?"

"Not yet. After all, I was off-duty. I'm not required to file anything."

Broderick narrowed his eyes. "That sounds faintly like blackmail."

"Nosir. But obviously I have some interest in the results of the Demystification of the dagger, and I have information FDI could use. I want you to give me a special assignment," Harry said, gulping a little at his audacity.

"After bollocksing a simple warrant search and getting your arse sidelined for two weeks? I bloody well think not," Broderick snarled.

"Hear me out, please, sir," Harry said. "Nobody else is going to see it as anything prestigious, they'll see it as you easing me back into active duty. Attach me to Forensic Demystification for a few weeks while we figure out the dagger. I have clearance they don't, I can go places they can't. It won't endanger any other Aurors, and it'll help me get back to speed. I deserve to know what it did to me."

Broderick tapped his fingers again. Harry watched him warily.

"I am very, very hesitant to put you back into contact with that dagger," he said finally. "FDI told me what Amos Diggory looked like. You've presumably seen for yourself. I won't have one of my Aurors end up as a raving pincushion."

"You worry a lot about addictions, sir," Harry said, before he thought about it. Broderick's head snapped up.

"What would you know about it?" he asked sharply.

"When I was eleven, I fell in love with a mirror that showed me my family," Harry replied, just as sharply. "When I was seventeen I held a ring in my hand that could call up the dead and I left it lying in the Forbidden Forest, hopefully forever. I've seen Amos Diggory, and if I needed a cautionary tale, I've had it. If you really want to know what my secret vice is, I'm addicted to finding out the truth."

The silence stretched out between them. Finally, Broderick leaned back.

"Report to Forensic Demystification," he said shortly. "I'll fill out the paperwork."

"Thank you, sir," Harry said, standing to leave. He was at the door before Broderick spoke again.

"Potter," he said. Harry turned. "An addiction by its definition is an unhealthy attachment. It excludes family, love, duty -- and justice. There's a time to walk away. I trust you know what that time is."

"To the minute," Harry answered, and closed the door behind him.

***

The Demystification lab, located in an annex of Ministry headquarters, most closely resembled a medieval woodcut of a magician's workshop, down to the mysterious bubbling liquids in glass jars and the heaps of books on every available surface. There were specimens in jars on the shelves, including what appeared to be a human hand. Speculation ran rampant amongst the Auror trainees, who were given a tour of the lab during orientation, about whose hand it was. Ron reckoned it was a joke hand that they kept to intimidate people with. Harry wasn't quite so sure.

The lab was always busy, most busy in the mornings; Harry leaned in the doorway and watched as trained alchemists fiddled with various potions and objects strewn around the worktables. There seemed to be a sort of rhythm to it -- everyone was constantly moving, but somehow nobody was ever in another person's way.

"Hey, Harry!" someone called, and Harry glanced to his left.

"Wotcha, Parvati," he said, grinning. She waved with two fingers, the rest of her hand holding a half-dozen silk evidence bags. She dodged around someone carrying a flask of noxious-looking green liquid and brushed past him, smiling.

"Come for the report on that business at The Corner?" she called over her shoulder.

"Er...yeah, something like that," Harry said, following her.

"Nobody's briefed you, have they?" she said, setting the bags down on a table. "We heard about what happened. How are you?"

"Oh, you know," he shrugged. "Back on my feet. What've you got there?"

"Phials and philters," she replied, wrinkling her nose. "Samples from a search a few days ago."

"Anything interesting?"

"Not to me. I'm just prepping them, my boss'll be in later to give 'em a full analysis. He's probably the one you want to talk to, anyway." She leaned on the workbench. "We're not quite done processing yet, didn't Auror Broderick tell you?"

"I'm not really here to collect a report," he said. "Broderick's attaching me to you lot for a few days."

"Brilliant. Just like school," she grinned. "Dumbledore's Army, eh?"

Harry smiled back, but he was thinking of Neville and what he'd said -- we'll be fighting the war all our lives.

"I'm supposed to help with the investigation on the dagger," he said. "Though if anyone needs a hand with anything else you pulled out of that pit, I'm all yours."

"The dagger's all that's left, really -- we got it later than the rest, something about a filing mishap. Want to see it?" she asked, a conspiratorial note in her voice. "Follow me."

Harry had to walk fast to keep up as she darted through the room, dodging around alchemists more deftly than he did. When he caught up to her she was unhooking a sheet of cloth that was attached to a table with four iron clasps at the corners. There was some kind of dish underneath the cloth, and she pulled the covering back as if she were an amateur conjuror producing a rabbit from a hat.

The little knife lay in a pool of clear liquid in a shallow bowl, a few stubborn bubbles clinging to the silk that wrapped the handle. Harry bent over it, studying the dagger up close for the first time. It looked innocent enough; strange, of course, because one expected a silver blade, but not at all harmful. Rather decorative, really.

"We've been suspending it in various liquids, since we read your report about it absorbing blood," she said. "That's an alcohol solution. So far it doesn't seem to take anything -- we even tried pig blood and cadaver blood. It seems to want the real thing. Living blood only."

"Well, I wouldn't recommend trying that," Harry answered. "Do you know if anything's been discovered about its origins?"

She shook her head. "Not as far as I know. We've had a look at the gemstones in the hilt, but they're semiprecious, not very valuable. The handle's an alloy, but the blade is pure gold. Which is stupid, really, it's far too soft to be useful."

"Cut me well enough," Harry murmured. There was something wrong with the blade; something missing, though he couldn't quite put a finger on what. "Can I touch it?"

"Why?" she asked, raising her eyebrows.

"I want to see something on the other side of the blade."

"Use this." She handed him a short silver rod with two prongs on one end. "Keep it in the solution, if you can."

Harry maneuvered the prongs into the liquid, fitting them around the blade and cautiously turning it over.

"Steady hand," Parvati observed. "You'd make a good alchemist."

"Yeah, well," Harry said, settling the dagger flat, "you remember what I was like in Potions."

"I remember you were mouthy," she said. Harry eased the rod out of the alcohol and wiped it on the cloth she offered. "What're you looking for?"

Harry studied the spine of the blade, the answer coming to him. "There was writing on the knife when I saw it. Runes, I think. All the way along the blade."

"Are you sure?" she asked. "I mean, someone was threatening your life with it, that messes with your memory, huh?"

"Pretty sure. I couldn't tell you what it said, though. Nobody's seen any writing on it?"

"Not since we've had it. Was this before or after it cut you?" she asked, casually leaning over a sheet of parchment tacked down next to the dish.

"After," he said, watching as she made notes. "But before the blood soaked in. Has anyone actually handled it? With their bare hands?"

She lifted the top sheet, examining the ones underneath. "Nope. Broderick's orders. No live human blood, no unnecessary handling."

"That means you too, Mr. Potter," said a deep voice behind them. Harry looked up and found himself face to face with the head of Demystification for the Aurors.

"Harry Potter, Sullivan Gresham," Parvati said, gesturing at her boss.

"We met once before," Gresham said, shaking Harry's hand. "When you were a trainee."

"I remember, sir," Harry said.

"Taking a personal interest? I wouldn't have thought Broderick would put you on a case you were involved in," Gresham continued.

"Not directly," Harry replied. "I've been assigned to help determine the origin of the dagger. I understand you sent a couple of people to speak to Amos Diggory about it."

"Not that it was worth much. My people are scientists, not interrogators."

"Ah, well. I can help there," Harry said, rubbing the back of his head. "I went to see Amos a few days ago, after FDI had come and gone. We chatted for a while. Probably helps that he recognised me."

"What did he say?" Parvati asked. Harry glanced at her. "Did he..."

"He mentioned Cedric, yes," Harry said bluntly. "He said he bought the dagger off a woman who told him it would help him see Cedric again."

"His son, yes?" Gresham said, consulting the notes on the dagger. "The one who died. Ah -- the one whose body you recovered."

"Yes, sir."

"What was the woman's name?" Parvati asked. Harry blinked. "You did ask, didn't you?"

"No, I -- was busy finding out what it did," Harry answered. "He says it made him see ghosts. My report bears out the claim, if you have it."

"That's something to go after, the woman who sold it to him. She'll be up for distribution of Dark Artefacts and involuntary assault," Gresham continued dispassionately. "The nature of this little toy, now...these ghosts. Are they real?"

"Don't know," Harry replied. "They seemed real enough to me. That's why I'm here. I want to find out."

"Well, you won't be of much use to us alchemically speaking," Gresham said. "You're a bit of a terrier amongst cats, here."

"I'm sorry?" Harry said.

"We're all hunting rats, but we have different methods," Gresham explained. "Still, it never hurts to know the procedures. I'll introduce you around today and let you get familiar with the way the lab works -- Parvati, you can babysit if you like, since you and Potter seem to be old friends. Where are those philters you had for me, by the way?"

"Station three."

"Excellent. Potter, you can read up on our reports and research once you're settled in, and tomorrow I'd like you to go back and see Diggory again. Try and extract a name from him. We may as well trace it back to a source, if we can."

"Yes, sir," Harry said. "If it helps, someone said it might be Goblin-made. I've got a mate who works for Gringotts, I could have him give it a look."

"Quite the firebrand, isn't he?" Gresham said to Parvati, who grinned. "Interview first, Potter. I want as few people gawping at it as possible until we know. In the meantime, I have work to do."

He left Harry and Parvati standing there, Harry still holding the rod he'd used to rotate the dagger with.

"Is he always like that?" he asked Parvati.

"Pretty much. He's a great alchemist, though," Parvati added. "Come on, I'll find you a desk and you can go over the research."

She reclipped the cloth covering to its iron clasps and lifted the tacks out of the parchment that held the report, bundling it up with another scroll nearby. Harry sighed inwardly as he followed. This was turning out to be an awful lot of reading.

***

"Good morning," Harry said to the mediwitch at the desk, passing across his Auror's identification. "Reckon you didn't think you'd see me back so soon, eh?"

"Good morning, Mr. Potter," she replied with a smile. "I didn't, at that. How can we help you today? Do you know, since you came to speak with Amos he's been very well-behaved. Which just goes to show that the right sort of visitor is all the poor man really needs, I think."

"In that case he's in luck," Harry answered, holding up a book. "I've come to see Mr. Diggory again. I thought he might like a visitor."

"How nice of you," she said warmly, unhooking a keyring from the desk and leading the way once more down the hallway to the small, sunlit room where Amos passed his days. "I'll just leave you here. There's a button by the bed if you need anything, and you can let yourself out when you're finished."

"Ta," Harry said, settling into the chair she brought forward for him. "Much obliged."

She looked as if she'd like to ruffle his hair as she left, and he was grateful she resisted. He opened the book he'd brought and coughed gently.

"Good morning, Amos," he said gently. "Do you remember me?"

Amos, staring out at the hospital grounds, didn't move.

"Amos?" Harry asked, worried. There was a whisper of breath and his chin moved slightly, dipping in acknowledgement. "It's Harry Potter."

"Harry Potter," Amos breathed.

"I thought you might like it if I read to you," Harry said, showing him the book. "I didn't know what you would enjoy, so I brought a Muggle book."

Amos grunted, still not tearing his eyes from the window. Harry took this for resignation, if not acceptance.

"Do you mind if I read to you for a little while? It might help pass the time," Harry continued. Amos didn't respond. "Well, I...erm, will, and if you don't want me to just tell me to stop."

He flicked through the book to the page he'd marked with a dogear earlier -- Hermione would be miffed he'd folded a page on her book, but he'd stolen it too so he might as well be in for a sheep as a lamb.

"I had called upon my friend Sherlock Holmes upon the second morning after Christmas," he began, "with the intention of wishing him the compliments of the season. He was lounging upon the sofa in a purple dressing-gown, a pipe-rack within his reach upon the right..."

Harry knew he wasn't really any good at reading aloud, but Amos Diggory wasn't a very critical audience. He simply sat and watched people come and go, breathing shallowly and rarely moving.

I took the tattered object in my hands and turned it over rather ruefully. It was a very ordinary black hat of the usual round shape, hard and much the worse for wear. The lining had been of red silk, but was a good deal discoloured. There was no maker's name; but, as Holmes had remarked, the initials "H. B." were scrawled upon one side.

Four years ago, Harry would have simply walked into the room and started asking questions, naively assuming he couldn't do any better, as he had with Slughorn when Dumbledore had charged him with finding out the truth about his dealings with Tom Riddle. That final year when he should have been in school, should have been falling in love and swotting for his exams, he'd learned the delicate art of...well, it wasn't lying really. It was...building the mood, to get someone talking.

"There have been two murders, a vitriol-throwing, a suicide, and several robberies brought about for the sake of this forty-grain weight of crystallized charcoal. Who would think that so pretty a toy would be a purveyor to the gallows and the prison?"

He read until his throat started to ache from talking, eyes flicking up every so often to see if Amos was listening. Not that he could tell, really. But when he stopped, marked the new page, and closed the book, Amos shut his eyes briefly.

"I used to think Sherlock Holmes was pretty boring," Harry said conversationally. "When I was a kid, I mean. A friend of mine gave me one of the books when I started training to be an Auror. I guess she thought someone who did a lot of detective work should know all this. It's more interesting now. To me, anyway."

Silence.

"This is what I do, Amos," Harry said earnestly, setting the book aside. "I find out where things came from, what they do. And I need you to help me."

He might have imagined the flicker in the man's eyes.

"I need to ask you about the knife you used to own. See, the woman who sold it to you -- "

"She said I would see Cedric!" Amos said harshly, turning to look at him for the first time.

"I know," Harry answered. "And that was a lie. I need to find out who she is, so that she won't lie to anyone else."

Amos pressed his lips into a thin line, eyes darting back to the window. Harry could just see their reflections, like ghosts, in the glass.

"This isn't the life you wanted," Harry said softly. "We both know that. What if she hurts someone else, Amos?"

Amos leaned forward, and his reflection showed more clearly in the window. Harry wondered if he actually had been watching what went on outside the window, or if he'd been staring at his own face all this time.

"Who sold you the knife?" Harry asked. Amos tilted his head, studying his own image.

"He looked in the water and died of it," he said. Harry frowned.

"Who did?"

"It's an old story..."

"What old story, Amos?" Harry looked back at the window, then at Amos again.

"Narcissus," Amos mumbled. Harry felt every muscle in his body tense. But there were procedures...

"What's the name of the woman who sold you the knife?" he asked. "I can't tell you the name. You have to tell me."

One of man's clawlike, thickly-scarred fingers shot out and took Harry's wrist, startling him. He expected a cold, clammy palm on his skin, but Diggory's hand was warm and dry.

"I'll see him again," he said. "You promised."

"In time," Harry said. "I need her name, Amos."

Amos released him and sat back, chin sinking down on his chest.

"Malfoy," he said finally, and Harry's breath came shallow and quick. "Narcissa. Narcissa Malfoy."

Continue to the next part

Harry Potter and the Legion of Ghosts: Ch. 6

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