Betaed and improved by rambkowalczyk
Chapter Twenty-Two: The Road To Hell
Harry slept badly that night. Images of Death Eater attacks kept mixing with strange things in his dreams. Early in the morning, just as the sun was rising, he woke up once more, his head pressed against the headboard. His scar was itching and aching and he had a heavy, nauseous feeling in his stomach. What was it he had dreamt?
He remembered being tied to something; Professor Quirrell was wearing one of Dumbledore’s hats instead of his turban. Quirrell had tried to force him to look into the Mirror of Erised, but Harry knew that he shouldn’t look at the mirror, because it was actually a boggart and something horrible would happen if he did. In the end he looked and he saw that the Mirror was broken, showing him two identical images of himself. One was holding the Philosopher’s Stone; the other had empty hands and was surrounded by people who were smiling and embracing him: his Mum and Dad, and Ron and Hermione and the Weasleys and Hagrid and Sirius and Professor Lupin...
Why was that dream causing him to feel a frightful sense of vertigo? It wasn’t that scary, was it? He also saw no connection to Voldemort. Lately, dreams of Voldemort had been rare. Since the last attack and the subsequent fit of anger from Voldemort, things had changed. There was the constant feeling of slight pain in his scar and something that might almost be called euphoria from the connection with Voldemort. Well, the Dark Lord had a lot of reasons to be happy, Harry thought darkly.
Now that he was awake, he got up. Ron was buried under his covers. Harry dressed and picked up his firebolt. Hermione and Ginny, who had come to Hogwarts the evening before, were also still in bed.
The Hogwarts grounds were empty and quiet. It was a clear, gusty Saturday morning, perfect for flying, but he couldn’t concentrate. After a while the nausea went away and he felt better. He wished to do something, to be active. He hated having to wait until bad things happened to him.
Lost in thoughts, Harry spotted a very small, brown-haired figure standing by one of the Quidditch stands. He dropped out of the sky, a perfect Wronski Feint, and nearly toppled off his broom ten feet away from Hermione.
She was standing in the shadows; her bushy hair tangled by the soft wind, and looked very young and fragile in a simple pair of jeans and a blue T-shirt. For a fraction of a second she reminded Harry of Cho; he was shocked and confused and wondered whether he was actually thinking of her in a different way all. Then he noticed her puffy reddened eyes and helpless looks, and knew that she reminded him of Cho because she was crying; she was still pretty while doing so, but also very disconcerting.
“Hermione?” Harry asked with a breaking voice. “Are you... did something happen?”
She nodded, yet shook her head at the same time, scrunching up her face and trying not to cry more. Then she bit her lower lip, averting her eyes. She mumbled something which he didn’t understand. Harry came closer and she almost flinched away.
“What’s up? Is it “ did something happen to your parents?” Again, she shook her head. Suddenly she looked up at him, bracing herself and her look made him want to run away. Whatever it was she wanted to say, he was afraid to hear it.
“Harry, there’s something I found out,” Hermione suddenly said. “Something about the Veil.”
“The Veil? The Veil in the ministry? The one ““.
“Please, don’t interrupt me. Oh, this is so stupid, I know you’ll ... promise me you’ll hear me to the end, Harry! Promise me you won’t do anything stupid!”
“Of course,” Harry stammered. Had she discovered a way to get behind the Veil? A way to rescue Sirius? If so why was she crying?
“I was in Diagon Alley a few days ago, after you told me about the prophecy, and I met Mr Ollivander there, the wand maker. He gave me a book, a diary, of some ancestor of his.” Hermione paused her account to get her erratic breath under control.
“That ancestor worked for the Ministry, in the Department of Mysteries before he became a wand-maker. And he discovered what they used the Veil for, Harry. It’s... well, back then, they had no Dementors... and they still had the death penalty.”
“You die when you fall through the veil,” Harry realised. So that was why they would have such a dangerous device in the Ministry. Death Penalty. Hermione was staring at him, and he didn’t like her look at all. Why was she so troubled over this discovery? It didn’t change anything for Sirius. He was puzzled and she saw it.
“That’s not everything,” she whispered. “I read more ... I just can’t go on not telling you. I can’t keep this to myself any longer! You don’t just die when you go behind the Veil ... they wanted something worse than death ... it’s like Azkaban. Like hell. You relive your life, to pay for your ... sins.”
A long, sudden silence passed over them, during which neither said a word or made a sound or even moved an inch.
“You must be wrong,” Harry stammered. He shivered despite the warmth and the light all around him.
“Hell doesn’t exist, not really. It can’t be hell! I heard my parents behind the Veil! And Luna heard hers!” he was shouting frantically now. “They cannot be in hell! And Mum and Dad never went through the Veil! You just die when you go through it ... and you meet your... loved ones ...”.
It took Hermione a tremendous effort to stay calm, he could see it on her face. And yet she talked to him in her best reasonable voice.
“It’s a trick, Harry. It’s just a trick to lure people closer to the Veil. Of course your parents aren’t there.” She was talking to him like a parent to a child. “You just thought you heard them. There’s no reason your parents should be there.”
“There’s no reason Sirius should be there!” Harry screamed back at her. “HE’S INNOCENT! He “ he doesn’t deserve this! First Azkaban, then this ...”.
The thought of Sirius reliving Azkaban and Peter’s treason and Grimmauld Place until the end of time renewed his anger of the injustice of it all. He dropped his broom and whirled the snitch he had been clutching against the tribune with such a force that the little wings broke and it fell limply to the ground. Hermione winced.
“It just ISN’T FAIR!” Harry roared, trying desperately not to cry.
“And once again Dumbledore tells me nothing! He must have known it! LIAR!”
“Maybe he didn’t know it, Harry. It was kept secret by the ministry ...,” Hermione pleaded in a small voice.
“I DON’T CARE! The ministry knows, but nobody gives a damn! Because it’s just Sirius! As if anybody ever cared about him! He’s useless to their schemes!”
“Harry, even if they know about it what can they do? They probably didn’t want to hurt us - ”
“But you felt like hurting me?” Harry spat at her. “At least you’re honest! Or did you just want to show off a bit of extra knowledge?” He was angry beyond his wits; new tears welled up in Hermione’s eyes at his words.
“Shut up!” she cried. “You’re not the only one who loved Sirius! I knew him just as well as you did! AND I DID CARE!”
Suddenly a cramped silence hung over the Quidditch pitch. They were panting from all the screaming. Hot tears shone on Hermione’s cheeks. Harry was biting his lip, grinding his teeth, and then, very slowly, his eyes got misty behind his glasses and he started to cry. Harsh sobs whacked his shoulders and his knees got weak. Finally he broke down on the dry grass, clutching it with his hands, tearing at it.
Hermione closed the distance between them and came to embrace him, like a mother would have hugged her child, stroking his back, letting his tears soak her shoulder.
“It’s just not fair... just not fair,” Harry sobbed, over and over. He thought of Sirius, of the things Remus had said about him by the grave. Such a childhood, such injustice, all those dark years, all the frustration ... and yet he had never strayed from his path. How could such a person be punished again? How could it be that he will never find peace... how could it be that they were so helpless ...
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Hermione quietly led Harry away from the Quidditch pitch and back to Gryffindor tower. He mounted the stairs with such a blind and empty look on his face that she feared he would trip and fall and then just lie on the ground and not get up again. The only word she said was the password for the portrait hole.
When they entered, Ginny and Ron were already waiting. Ginny was reading a book and Ron was picking at a sandwich.
“Hey “,” Ron stopped in mid sentence and stared at them. “What happened?”
Harry just sat down in a single chair and leaned his broom against it. Hermione chose the sofa Ginny was sitting on.
“What happened?” Ron repeated his question. “Where have you been?”
Hermione gazed at Harry. He didn’t look at her. “Tell them,” he said in a flat voice.
What had she done? What had she done to him? Hermione’s thoughts raced in mounting panic. He looked worse now than he had after Cedric’s death, worse even than he had looked right after Sirius’ death. Had she done the wrong thing by telling him her secret?
She told Ron and Ginny what she had told Harry, careful to be exact without being too cruel in her choice of words. Still she could see Harry’s expression becoming stony and cold with her words.
“Oh no,” Ginny said, her voice tight and angry. “Why did this have to happen to Sirius?”
“Can’t we do something?” Ron asked.
“Ron, I’m sure if there was something that could be done, Dumbledore would have done it,” Hermione replied. There was no objection from Ron and Ginny, but Harry’s voice cut into the silence like a heavy blade.
“Dumbledore would think of a number of reasons why we shouldn’t do it now.” Harry got up and walked across the room and back. He cast a dark look at the portrait frames on the wall. “ His main concern is this war between him and Voldemort. If we want to rescue Sirius, we have to do it on our own.”
“Harry, you know that isn’t true. Dumbledore does care about Sirius. But Sirius is dead. How can he help him?” Hermione asked, trying her best to sound calm and reasonable. She knew it was most unlikely that Harry would listen to reason. But perhaps she could at least convince Ron and Ginny.
Harry turned to her, looking a little surprised. He stopped pacing.
“How?” he echoed. A clock chimed and then silence fell over them again. Her friends were all looking at Hermione.
“Look,” she said. “After Sirius fell through the Veil, and I recovered from my injuries, I immediately started to look for answers in the library. I did the same when I went to Diagon Alley this summer and I will continue doing it. But the only book I’ve found so far that tells us anything about the Veil is the diary Ollivander gave me. How can we help Sirius if we don’t know anything about the Veil?”
Ginny nodded and so did Ron. Harry merely looked impatient. “I know that if I step through the Veil, I will be where Sirius is.”
“If you step through the Veil, you will be dead!” Ginny cried furiously. “How can you even think about that, Harry?”
Harry leaned his head against the window where he had been standing. He traced his scar with two fingers, then he closed his eyes. He looked thin and tired. “I can think about it because I’ve been thinking about death constantly.”
He turned to look at them, but still leaned against the window frame for support. “I have a prophecy that says I will die. The most powerful sorcerer of our time is trying to kill me. People die around me, all the time!”
“The most powerful sorcerer is Dumbledore, not Voldemort,” Hermione replied. She knew that Harry didn’t believe what he was saying.
“Maybe,” Harry said flatly. “But I’m not Dumbledore and I’ll never be him. I don’t even want to.”
He picked up his broom and turned around to mount the stairs to the boys’ dormitory. Then he looked at them again.
“I’ll find a way to rescue Sirius. That is something I can do.”
Hermione looked back at him and remained silent. She had said all she had to say. She felt if she said anymore it might drive Harry to do something irrational. Ron looked stricken. He wanted to be on Harry’s side, but Hermione knew that she had convinced him. Only Ginny still dared to object.
“It’s selfish,” she said in her clear, high voice. “I know you didn’t ask for it, Harry, but you are the only one who can defeat Voldemort. Nobody else can. What are we to do if you die? It’s selfish of you.”
He stared at her as if she had just betrayed him in the worst possible way. His face became cold and remote. “You don’t understand me. I’m doing it for Sirius” he whispered.
“No, you’re not,” Ginny told him, even as he turned to mount the stairs. “You’re doing it for yourself. Sirius wouldn’t want you to.”
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Harry went through the day in shock. He was constantly thinking about Sirius. His mind repeated the memory of his godfather falling through the Veil, over and over again.
That night when he was alone in his bed “he pretended to be asleep so as not to talk to Ron- he gave serious thought to everything Hermione had said. Logically he knew she was right. But his heart told him something else. Didn’t Dumbledore say something about his heart saving him in the end?
But Dumbledore and Hermione wouldn’t help him. Not now and possibly not ever. Harry had to act now if he wanted to help Sirius. The war would not stop for him and he could never know when he would have to face Voldemort again. He could never know if he would survive that confrontation...
No, he had to act now. He had to go to London, to the Ministry and to the Veil. He would listen to the voices that came from behind the Veil. Perhaps he would hear Sirius?
Hermione could protest as much as she wanted but this was what Harry had to do. Hadn’t he been dreaming about carrying a bright light over a desolate plain? Perhaps this was what he would do behind the Veil. After he was certain Ron was asleep he got his Invisibility Cloak, the satchel with Sirius’ broken mirror, the pocket knife he had given him for his birthday and all the money he had, then he slipped out of the castle.
Everything went surprisingly smooth until he reached the road to Hogsmeade. Harry was just about to point his wand hand at the road to call the Knight Bus, when out of the dark, a tall figure appeared on the road. Harry froze “ suddenly his body didn’t pay attention to the orders he was giving it anymore. Some kind of magic had happened, even though Harry had heard no spell.
Night was pitch black on the road, Harry was wearing his invisibility cloak “ and yet the man was looking directly at his face. His hoarse voice sounded amused.
“So,” the tall man said, pointing his right hand at him. It was dark, so Harry couldn’t quite see whether he was carrying a wand in it or not. The wizard had certainly paralysed him quite effectively, though.
At first he thought it was Professor Dumbledore, but it wasn’t. The beard was too short.
“Where were you going, Mr Potter? Visiting your old pal Voldemort?” And Dumbledore would definitely never have spoken in such a dangerous voice.
Harry struggled against the charm holding him, but the magic held him tightly in place. However he could still talk.
“How can you see me?” he asked furiously, trying to stall.
“You wouldn’t ask my brother if he saw right through that cloak, wouldn’t you?” the wizard asked and Harry realised that it was Aberforth Dumbledore, Order member and bartender of the Hog’s Head.
Dumbledore’s brother lowered his hand and Harry was released from the spell. They were standing alone on the dark road to Hogsmeade and it was about half past one in the night.
“So, where were you going? I can see through your cloak, but only Albus can see through your thick head.”
“I was just taking a walk.” Harry knew he wouldn’t get to London tonight, but if he didn’t tell Dumbledore’s brother where he had been headed, then maybe he’d get another chance.
“And you weren’t just about to point your wand hand at the road? You’re not the only one who knows how to call the Knight Bus, lad. I don’t need such ways to travel, though. Maybe it would be safer to go with me,” the man offered.
“As if you would bring me anywhere but back to Hogwarts,” Harry answered in a sullen voice.
“Depends on why and where you wanted to go. I don’t believe Voldemort lurks behind every bush, I don’t even think he expects you to be anywhere but at Hogwarts. So you want to go somewhere. Why not?”
Aberforth sounded serious. Maybe... Dumbledore thought him mad, didn’t he? Maybe the strange wizard would help him.
“London,” Harry admitted cautiously.
“How ordinary,” Aberforth replied, raising a brow ironically. In the dark he looked even less like his brother. He had the rough features of a statue carved from granite with primitive tools, and his beard and rugged hair didn’t shimmer like the moon at all. They were grey as the fur of a wolf.
“The Department of Mysteries,” Harry ventured. “Now you’re going to take be back to Hogwarts, right?”
“Not at all. I suppose your interest lies in something specific. Maybe you want to see the future? Or the power the Dark Lord knows not? Or maybe ... you want to talk to the dead?”
Harry winced. Aberforth nodded slowly, then he grabbed Harry’s shoulder and quickly led him away from the road, into the dark wood. Under the trees it was too dark to see anything. What was he going to do? Suddenly Harry was afraid. Why did he trust the man? He might be a Death Eater spy, or an impostor like Barty Crouch Jr. The shadows became corporeal, dangerous, as they strode between age-old trees, their feet soundless on the moss.
“A very long time ago, wizards used to know death intimately,” Aberforth said while they were still walking. His voice was more serious and more smooth than usual.
“They didn’t fear it, and when Muggles wanted to talk to their beloved dead, wizards helped them to do so. We had ways to travel other lands than this world, ways to walk on the dark hills, ways to talk to the dead. But then the age of reason came, and religion of a different kind came upon us, years went by and now we fear and misunderstand death, wizards and Muggles alike.”
They reached a part of the forest that was almost a swamp. Inky waters and islands of weeds made a path where you could easily be swallowed by the moist soil. But the old wizard led Harry with dreamlike ease, as if he were walking on a hidden path Harry couldn’t see.
“Today, we have magical theories. We have books and scientists and scientific devices. Mysteries are to be unravelled, myths to be dismantled. If someone claimed to walk with the dead, he would be put into St Mungo’s. My brother thinks that I am behind the times, brilliant but mad, because I refuse to live in such modern times.”
Harry was unable to open his mouth and speak, because he was so caught up in following the wizard through the shadows, in worrying about Sirius and worrying about what Dumbledore’s brother might do or want from him. He felt as if this were all a nightmare in which invisible, unknown obstacles prevent you from running away fast enough.
Aberforth stopped. The moon shone like a pale ghost on the black swampland, as if they had quietly passed the border between the real world and what lay beyond.
“Today, there are Dark and Light Arts,” Aberforth explained. “But what I practise is a magic beyond colour and naming. It comes to me, takes from me, and gives to me. It’s natural, not supernatural. I can let you talk to your dead, Harry Potter. But be aware that my brother would disagree, that he thinks this is dark magic.”
“How?” asked Harry. He wasn’t sure exactly what he was asking: How this magic was dark, or how it was done. He missed Hermione who would probably understand this better and Ron who would probably tell him not to trust the man. But would he heed their advice?
Aberforth turned to him. He put back the hood of his threadbare cloak. Underneath he revealed feathers and little pearls of bone in his hair, and around his neck he wore a chain with teeth, feral and dangerous looking. He reminded Harry of an Indian medicine man, only he was real, and rather scary. His lined cheeks were hollow, his long nose like a beak, his eyes alight with energy. Harry backed away, feeling for his wand. Aberforth remained unfazed.
“You will be able to leave your body. You will be able to walk with the dead. You will be able to return to your body within seven times the sun rising and setting,” And Harry stopped in the middle of raising his wand.
“Will I be able to go behind the Veil and come back?”
If Voldemort himself had made him this offer, would he have been able to refuse?
“Behind any Veil.”
Harry did not hesitate long as this was the answer he was seeking. If somebody had made him an offer like that a year ago and he had known that Dumbledore would object, he probably wouldn’t have done it. It sounded horribly dangerous. But since then he had learned that the headmaster was making mistakes like everybody else. Dumbledore had tried to steer Harry towards the end the prophecy predicted and he had left him in the dark about it. That had cost Sirius’ life. Hadn’t Dumbledore told him that life was all about choices? His decision was made.
“I want to,” Harry answered firmly.