We Are Nothing
Part VI
By Ruskbyte
Title: We Are Nothing
Author: Ruskbyte
Disclaimer: This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.
Summary: Snape’s Occlumency lessons have shattered the last defences of Harry’s mind. Now, unprotected, his dreams have become home to a nightmare other than Voldemort. A nightmare that has taken on a life of its own.
“We are nothing; less than nothing and dreams. We are only what might have been, and must wait upon the tedious shores of Lethe millions of ages before we have existence, and a name.” - Charles Lamb, Essays of Elia, Dream Children
/oOo\
Part VI
A night seems termless hell
\oOo/
Pansy had never felt so utterly helpless or so utterly terrified as she did right now.
She had no idea how she had come to be trapped in the school’s astronomy tower. She did not even dare guess how she came to be wearing such an ostentatious evening gown and robes - something hardly appropriate for her circumstances.
All she did know was that she was stuck in the tower, all the entrances and exits were sealed and there was a crazy man dressed up as a black knight chasing after her. With a sword.
In hindsight, her apparel was appropriate for the proverbial damsel in distress.
“Oh Pansy! Oh Pansy! Wherefore art thou, Pansy?” called the black knight from the floor below.
Spurred on by his pursuit, Pansy resumed her flight up the stairs - she would rest later, rather than risk being caught.
In the back of her mind she was worried over what would happen when she eventually ran out of stairs; the astronomy tower was only so tall after all. Sooner, rather than later, she was going to reach the top floor and be left with nowhere else to run.
An ominous clanking sound drew her attention down. The black knight’s metal boots were ringing against the stone floor. He was getting closer. To make matters worse, Pansy rounded the last bend in the staircase and found herself at its top. In front of her now was the closed door leading onto the roof where their astronomy classes and furtive romantic rendezvous took place. The heavy tread of the black knight continued to sound, drawing higher and closer with every passing second.
Pansy pushed open the door and rushed through.
She drew to an immediate halt, however, when she found herself faced with the impossible. She was not on the astronomy tower roof. Instead, she seemed to be at the bottom of another set of stairs. What really bothered her, however, was the fact that she recognised these stairs. They were the stairs she had just spent several frantically minutes running up. She was, somehow, back at the bottom of the tower and at the start of the stairs. She glanced back through the door behind her, to check if that staircase was still there.
“‘Ello, poppet,” the black knight greeted.
Pansy let out a startled scream upon finding her pursuer standing in the doorway right behind her. The black knighted lifted a gauntleted hand up to raise the visor to his all encompassing helmet. Pansy let loose another short scream at the sight revealed.
“Peek-a-boo, I see-eth thou!” declared Freddy Krueger, giving her a little wave.
Pansy renewed her flight up the stairs with a vigour spurred on by sheer terror. This time her ascent was haunted not by the black knight’s echoing footsteps, but by his raucous and haughty laughter. Several times during her climb to the top of the tower Pansy tripped on the hem of her long dress and robes, but fear drove her on despite the accumulating bruises and small cuts. Reaching the top of the stairs for a second time, she paused to catch her breath.
The sudden absence of laughter worried her. Holding her breath, despite her need to gulp in as much air as possible, Pansy listened carefully. All was silent. It felt wrong for the stairwell to be so quiet. Then, just on the edges of her hearing, she detected the faint clink and clack of metal clad boots treading on stone floor. Realizing that she was still being chased, she turned to the door at the top of the stairs and once again flung it open. She was half expecting to find yet another copy of the Astronomy Tower’s main staircase.
She was quite surprised, unpleasantly so, to find herself standing face-to-face with the black knight.
“Hark, fair maiden, it be-eth time to ask-eth the most important-eth question,” announced Freddy.
“What question?” asked Pansy, trying to edge away. Maybe now it was time to run down the stairs instead of up them.
Freddy’s answering smirk was filled with malicious enjoyment as he finally dropped his bad Olde English accent. “Are you ‘too stupid to live’, or ‘too pathetic to kill’?”
“No!”
“No, you’re not too pathetic to kill? Perfect, just what I wanted to hear.”
“No! Help! Somebody, anybody, help me!”
For the first in her life, Pansy wished that Harry Potter was there with her. He was the certified hero, after all. It was his job to stop things like this from happening. It was his job to ride in, a knight in Gryffindor colours, and save the damsel in distress.
Her wish would remain unfulfilled.
-oOo-
Poppy Pomfrey watched bleakly as two of her colleagues levitated the gurney carrying Pansy Parkinson’s body into the hospital wing.
“This way, Aurora,” she indicated.
Being a school infirmary there was no mortuary, so she was using the isolation section of the ward to hold what seemed like an ever growing number of bodies.
“Have you notified her parents, Headmistress?” she asked of McGonagall. With Umbridge out of the castle, most of the staff had elevated her to the position, at least until Dumbledore returned.
“No,” McGonagall shook her head, “The Aurors will be handling it.”
“Do they have any idea who’s doing this?”
“I’m afraid not.”
“Well, at least they can’t blame Mr Potter for it,” Pomfrey noted, glancing to where the boy in question was sleeping.
McGonagall also looked over to what was jokingly referred to as “his” hospital bed.
“Still asleep, is he?” she asked.
Pomfrey nodded and confirmed, “I slipped a specialized sleeping draft into his soup last night. It was difficult finding something to give him that wouldn’t have a bad reaction to the veritaserum.”
They followed Professor Sinistra into the makeshift morgue. Sheet covered bodies were already laid out on two of the beds. On one the white fabric was stained red in places.
“Here,” said Pomfrey, motioning to one of the empty beds. “You can place her next to Mr Finnigan.”
“Thank you, Poppy,” muttered Sinistra.
“Seamus’ mother should be coming today to collect the body,” said McGonagall.
“What about Severus?”
“I don’t know. He had no family and no close friends, other than Albus.”
Pomfrey moved to replace Sinistra by Pansy’s bed as the younger witch hastily departed. Placing a number of standard stasis charms, which she had once hoped to never use, to preserve the body, she briefly drew back the covering sheet to regard the dead girl’s face.
“So young,” she murmured.
“Do you still have some of that medicinal brandy in your office?” asked McGonagall tiredly.
“Of course,” replied Pomfrey, replacing the sheet. “I think we could both use a ‘wee dram’ right now.”
“Forget the ‘wee’ and make sure you use your biggest glasses,” McGonagall advised.
The two women retired to the nurse’s office, making sure to seal and lock the isolation ward on their way out. As promised, Pomfrey’s first stop was her desk, where she drew a bottle of aged brandy from the bottom drawer.
“The large glasses are in that cabinet,” she said, pushing aside various books and rolls of parchment to make space on her desktop.
“Right,” acknowledged McGonagall. As she retrieved their drinking cups, she asked, “How is Mr. Potter? Other than sleeping quietly?”
“He should be all right. These sort of things seem to happen to him so often it’s practically routine.”
“So he will make a full recovery?”
“Barring any further idiocy from the Ministry,” confirmed Pomfrey, filling their glasses.
“When will he be waking up?” asked McGonagall, starting with a large gulp of her brandy. “Madam Bones is going to want to speak with him.”
Pomfrey shook her head. “She’ll have to wait. The potion I gave him will keep him out for nearly a week.”
McGonagall almost dropped her glass. “A whole week!”
“The veritaserum and You-Know-Who’s possession have put a big strain on his body and his magic,” Pomfrey explained. “At this point, a short and controlled healing coma is really the best thing for him.”
“Well, if you’re sure,” agreed McGonagall as she sipped her brandy. “I’ll be sure to tell Amelia.”
“Silly boy should thank me,” grumbled Pomfrey, enjoying her own drink.
“I’m afraid Harry’s never enjoyed being in you care,” observed McGonagall.
“Well he should,” Pomfrey asserted. “What kind of teenage wizard wouldn’t enjoy five days of uninterrupted sleep?”
-oOo-
Amelia Bones was in a decidedly unhappy mood. Truth be told, she had been in a bad mood ever since that debacle of a Triwizard Tournament had been announced. It had been going steadily down hill from there.
Not for the first time she cursed her lot in life. Nobody should have to deal with Cornelius Fudge on a regular basis. Especially since what few brains he possessed had apparently dribbled out his ears.
“Amelia, we’ve been waiting for you.”
“Thank you, Minerva.”
Falling into step beside the deputy-headmistress, for all intents and purposes the current headmistress of Hogwarts, Bones followed her to the staff room.
“Have there been any new developments?” she asked as they walked.
“Almost half the students have had to visit Madam Pomfrey for calming drafts,” reported McGonagall. “There’s a lot of tension in the air - particularly in Slytherin.”
“That’s only natural,” replied Bones. “Three of the four victims were from that house.”
“I’m worried it might escalate,” McGonagall admitted. “There’s been some talk that Mr Finnigan was killed in retaliation for Mr Malfoy and Severus.”
“And now the Parkinson girl brings it back to Slytherin,” concluded Bones.
“Aye.”
“Any evidence to support this? Or just the usual friction between the two houses?”
“No evidence. But nothing to disprove it either. Three dead Slytherins is a rather compelling argument.”
“And Finnigan was strangled whereas the other three were literally hacked to death.”
“That’s what some of my Lions are suggesting.”
“Let’s hope whoever’s doing this doesn’t decide to make things worse.”
“From your lips to Merlin’s ears,” agreed McGonagall opening the staffroom door and entered.
Following her inside, Bones was confronted by most of the Hogwarts professors and staff. Subdued greetings and pleasantries were exchanged before all assembled took their seats.
“Thank you for meeting with me,” Bones began. “Hopefully this won’t take too long and you’ll be able to get back to work soon.”
“I’m afraid there’s not much work that can be done,” stated Professor Sprout. “Most of the children are in no fit state to attend classes.”
“Keeping them busy is more important than actually teaching them anything,” explained Bones.
“That way they won’t spend so much time dwelling on what’s happening,” agreed Flitwick with a nod.
“Exactly.”
“So, what do you need from us, Madam Bones?” asked Professor Vector.
“I’m ashamed to admit it, but at this point we have absolutely nothing to work with,” confessed Bones. “In fact, the only thing we do know is that Harry Potter has nothing to do with it.”
“No suspects? At all?” asked Sprout.
Bones wearily shook her head. “As I said, we have nothing except four violent deaths under mysterious circumstances.”
“Are there any similarities or links between them?” asked Professor Babbling.
“Three students and a professor,” Vector mused. “Three Slytherins and a Gryffindor.”
“Malfoy and Parkinson were both on Umbridge’s Inquisitional Squad,” noted Professor Burbage, her disapproval clear in her tone.
“Finnigan was in Potter’s defence club, wasn’t he?” added Vector.
“Severus wasn’t killed straight away,” noted Flitwick. “It may be that the killer was interrupted that time - forced to come back the next night.”
“Snape is the only adult to be attacked so far, he might have been able to fight back,” suggested Bones.
McGonagall immediately shook her head, “No, Severus was a very adept fighter. If he had duelled his attacker there would have been some sign of it in his room.”
Bones reluctantly agreed, “My Aurors found no evidence of spell damage when they were checking his quarters.”
“They didn’t like Potter and he didn’t like them.”
The assembled professors turned to the source of this dark proclamation. Argus Filch stared balefully back at them.
“Argus, you can’t be accusing Mr Potter,” declared McGonagall in disbelief.
Filch scoffed at her. “Professor Snape, young Malfoy and the girl were his enemies. And Irish boy wasn’t on good terms with him either.”
“As I told you, Mr Potter is not involved,” asserted Madam Bones firmly. “Despite the illegality of it, he was questioned under truth serum and proved his innocence in the process.”
“The boy’s a troublemaker,” grumbled Filch. “He may not be the murderer, but you can bet he’s involved. He always is.”
“Thank you, Mr Filch,” said McGonagall curtly. “I think you can return to your duties.”
“But--”
“The pointless and baseless antagonism of certain members of staff towards Mr Potter may have been tolerated by Professor Dumbledore and Madam Umbridge,” declared McGonagall sternly. “I, however, will not tolerate it. Good day, Mr Filch.”
Realizing that he had overstepped his bounds, Filch slinked out of the staff room with his proverbial tail between his legs.
Seeing that Bones was looking at her with a raised brow, McGonagall explained her dismissal of the caretaker.
“If he can’t be helpful to this discussion, or at the very least keep his biases to himself, then as far as I’m concerned - he can go back to mopping the floor!”
-oOo-
The school was quieter than normal that night. It was as if the entire castle had gone to sleep while holding its breath in anticipation. The tension was almost palpable, especially in the Gryffindor and Slytherin dormitories.
It thus came as one hell of shock when the entirety of Hufflepuff was woken up in the dead of the night by screams of terror and agony.
The ensuing panic was hardly surprising, as the entire house had imagined themselves as being safe from any attack. For some reason they had thought the string of murders were going to remain constrained to the other houses. The resulting wake up call was nasty in more ways than one.
“Out of the way - out of the way!” yelled Professor Sprout, who had taken to sleeping in one of the spare rooms.
She had hoped not to be needed for such a situation, but was relieved that she was close enough to respond so quickly. Having fallen out of her bed at the sound of the first scream, she was only slightly slowed by her bruised hip.
“Out of the way!” she ordered, pushing her way into the fifth-year boys’ room.
“Professor Sprout!” shouted Ernie Macmillan, dashing to her.
Just one glance at the fifth-year boy was enough to convince Sprout that this was no joke in bad taste or a poorly thought out prank, as she had secretly hoped. Ernie, and his dorm-mate Justin Finch-Fletchley, were in an obvious panic. They were not fooling around. They were also liberally splattered with what could only be blood.
“Oh God, oh God, oh God, oh God, oh God,” Justin was chanting, not even noticing her arrival.
For just a second the herbology professor almost asked what was wrong, but realized that such a question was rather stupid given the circumstances. She was about to rephrase her query to ask what was happening, but another horrific shriek drew her attention to the ceiling. Any thoughts of asking any questions were promptly derailed by the impossibility of what she saw hanging above her.
Zacharias Smith was being dragged across the dormitory ceiling, his pyjamas stained red with blood. A sudden swerve and change of direction send a small spray arcing through the air to splash across Sprout’s face. A cry from Ernie indicated that he too had been hit, though with the copious amounts of blood already covering him it was a little hard to tell.
“OH GOD!” shouted Justin before resuming his chants of supplication with renewed vigour. “Oh God! Oh God! Oh God! Oh God!”
Sprout felt almost tempted to join him, but was too stunned to do anything more than stand and stare. She felt that if she tried to speak, especially so rapidly, her dinner would be making a re-appearance on the dormitory floor. It almost did when Zacharias was flung into the centre of the room, still pressed up against the ceiling without any visible support, and then began to spin round and round like some kind of demented top. The now almost constant spray of blood made the scene that much more terrible to witness.
Then, so unexpectedly that the other occupants of the room were badly startled, Zacharias came to an abrupt halt. To the further horror of those watching, he then arched his back almost to the breaking point as he let loose one final scream that surely must have been heard throughout the castle. With equal suddenness the buttons to his pyjama top gave way and his disembowelled guts fell to the floor. A moment later, Zacharias’ body dropped after his insides and hit with blood and gore soaked floor with a meaty thud. Ernie and Justin followed shortly thereafter, though their collapse was an understandable case of unconsciousness.
Professor Sprout really wished she could join the pair in fainting.
-oOo-
The last time the Great Hall had been so sombre was at the end of the Triwizard Tournament the previous year and the death of Cedric Diggory.
The biggest difference now, however, was the ambient noise. After the tournament things had been subdued and uncomfortably quiet. Now, in the wake of five brutal murders, the Great Hall, while sombre, was alive with rampant discussion.
Students from all four houses were flitting back and forth, though they tended to stick together in small clusters. This was more for the illusion of safety than anything else, as the hall already had two whole squads of Aurors standing on guard.
Of course, while most of the students were quietly mingling, two houses were conspicuous in their avoidance of each other. Thankfully, Hufflepuff and Ravenclaw were able to act as buffers between the two, or else the number of confrontations would have increased dramatically.
Unfortunately the unexpected murder of Zacharias Smith had caused great distress in Hufflepuff and thus they were no longer doing much to stay between Gryffindor and Slytherin other than offer a limited physical barrier.
“I’m telling you; there’s going to be another murder tonight!”
All those in earshot turned their eyes to Michael Corner, who was currently having a loud and animated argument with Ernie Macmillan and Justin Finch-Fletchley.
“Don’t be ridiculous,” argued Ernie. He was looking extremely haggard, having been forced to watch one of his roommates killed in front of him.
“Someone’s been killed every night for the last five nights,” declared Michael. “Believe me, there’ll be another tonight.”
“Maybe not - the DMLE’s posting a squad of Aurors in each house,” countered Justin, his voice soft as he sat hunched over a strong cup of tea. He had no appetite for anything more.
“Yeah, and the Aurors patrolling the halls and corridors last night did such a good job in keeping Zacharias alive,” Michael retorted.
While his statement was true enough, the bluntness of it, not to mention the lack of diplomacy, caused a ripple of indignation to sweep across the Hufflepuff table. He was talking about one of their own, after all. He seemed to realize the delicacy of the situation when several of the first- and second-years burst into tears again. The unpleasant looks from the older students also helped drive the point home.
“Don’t be so pessimistic, Michael,” chided Hannah Abbot quietly.
Nobody was so impolite as to mention the tear tracks streaking down her face. Most of the Hufflepuff girls were in a similar state, while the boys were almost universally ashen.
“I’m not being pessimistic,” replied Michael, steadfast. “What I’m being is realistic. There’s going to be another murder.”
“Oh? And how’s this madman going to get to us?” asked Ernie. “I can buy him somehow sneaking past the Aurors patrolling the corridors, but an entire squad in the common room? Impossible!”
“Not if he has an invisibility cloak like Potter’s supposed to,” suggested Terry Boot, joining the conversation.
“Oh, please don’t suggest Harry’s the one doing this,” groaned Susan.
“I’m not,” Terry quickly replied. “I’m just saying, Potter’s supposed to have an invisibility cloak.”
“And what? He’s lending it out to the murderer?” asked Ernie angrily. “A Galleon an hour?”
“Three of the victims were people he didn’t like,” put in Michael, once again stirring the pot.
“Malfoy, Snape and Parkinson were hardly popular enough to make that unusual,” said Susan.
“He was also on the outs with Seamus and had had a few arguments with Zach as well,” continued Michael insistently.
“And he’s not too fond of you either; is he, Corner?” asked Ernie bitingly.
Michael’s mouth hung open for a second before snapping shut with a loud click. He swallowed nervously and tried to retort. He was cut off by Justin before he could start.
“There’s also the fact that you’re a ‘Claw,” the stuffy boy noted. “That’s the only house that hasn’t lost anyone yet.”
“Sounds like they’re due for a nightly visit,” added Ernie, twisting the knife.
“Or maybe the killer’s one of us,” suggested Terry. He received a large number of looks of wide-eyed disbelief. Seeing everyone’s reactions, he shrugged, “Well, it’s a possibility.”
A moment of unease settled around the Hufflepuff table, with a large number of suspicious glances now being directed towards the Ravenclaws.
“You’re all a bunch of idiots if you believe that,” declared Theodore Nott, who had overhead the end of the conversation while on his way towards the Gryffindor table, where he had planned to bait Ron Weasley.
“Bugger off, Nott,” snarled Ernie. “Nobody here asked for you opinion.”
“Not that we’d trust it, even if we had,” added Justin.
Nott sneered at them, staying to argue only because Crabbe and Goyle were accompanying him.
“You think we care?” he asked, “You Hufflepuffs are all nothing but Potter’s lapdogs - of course you’d defend him, even as he starts killing you as well!”
“Shut your mouth, Nott,” demanded Ernie, even as the other Hufflepuff members of the DA drew their wands. “Or we’ll shut it for you!”
“Big words for a bunch of cowardly mudbloods and blood-traitors,” retorted Nott, the Slytherins drawing their wands as well.
Michael and Terry demonstrated their Ravenclaw intelligence by backing out of the way. If there was going to be a fight, then they would prefer not to be involved.
The situation, however, quickly began to escalate as a contingent of Gryffindors arrived to support their nominal allies. It was a bit of a surprise that their chosen spokesman was not Hermione or Ron, but rather the unlikely figure of Neville Longbottom.
“You really should listen to Ernie, Nott,” he told the Slytherin boy.
“Don’t make me laugh,” Nott sneered, bolstered by the arrival of several more of his house mates. While still outnumbered, the extra wands gave him a false sense of security.
Seeing the swelling number of Slytherins; Neville and the Gryffindors added fuel to the fire by also drawing their wands. By now the entire hall had gone quiet as all eyes turned to the mounting altercation. Even the on duty Aurors, supposedly standing guard and watching over them, seemed unable to do anything but watch things unfold.
Observing Neville with his wand out, Nott gave a contemptuous laugh. “Going to use your wand? Why bother, Longbottom? Everyone knows you couldn’t hit a city, even if you were inside one.”
“Then you have nothing to worry about, do you?” Neville quietly retorted.
The threat of violence was palpable in the air and every single wand was ready to cast the first spell of what could very easily turn into a full scale war.
“ENOUGH!”
The timely arrival of Professor McGonagall, accompanied by Madam Bones and even more Aurors, stalled any imminent explosion.
“PUT YOUR WANDS AWAY!” commanded McGonagall, sweeping her stern gaze over the mass of students. When nobody immediately complied, her eyes narrowed and her lips drew into a thin line. Her next command brooked no disobedience. “NOW!”
Slowly and grudgingly, wands were returned to their pockets and the confrontation began to disperse as the varied students returned to their own tables.
Open conflict between the houses had been averted, but everyone knew it was only temporary.
-oOo-
Michael’s sleep was interrupted when he was shaken awake by a frantic Anthony Goldstein.
“Michael! Michael, wake up!” his friend pleaded urgently.
“Eh, wha? Woosat?” he eloquently mumbled as he slapped Anthony’s hand away.
“There’s been another murder!”
Now that helped wake him up properly.
“What?!”
“Yeah - and it was one of us! A Ravenclaw!” gushed Anthony.
“A Ravenclaw?” repeated Michael with horror. “No! Who was it? Not one of the girls, please?”
“Just hurry and get up,” Anthony urged impatiently. “You need to get down to the common room.”
“I’m up, I’m up,” Michael confirmed, throwing his sheets aside and almost jumping out of his bed.
Considering the urgent nature of the situation, Michael did not bother getting properly dressed. He settled for throwing on his dressing gown and slippers before following an oddly eager Anthony.
“Well?” he asked as they made their way to the common room. “Who’s been killed? Mandy? Su?”
“You won’t believe me when I tell you,” replied Anthony.
The first thing to bother Michael upon their arrival in the common room was the silence. When Draco had been murdered, the room had been alive with debate, speculation and gossip. Now, there was not a sound to be heard other than the soft tread of his feet.
The reason for the quiet setting became readily apparent when he looked around to find the commons empty; save for himself and his head of house, Professor Flitwick. He turned to ask Anthony where everyone else was, only to discover that his escort had unexpectedly vanished.
“Ah, there you are,” declared Flitwick in his usual piping tones. “I’ve been waiting for you, Michael.”
“Sir?” asked Michael. “Where is everyone?”
“Oh, they’re all sleeping peacefully in their beds,” replied Flitwick.
“What? But why?” asked Michael, flabbergasted. “How can they be asleep when there’s been another murder?”
Flitwick, who was for some reason wearing a rough wool sweater in a hideous combination of Gryffindor red and Slytherin green, shrugged his shoulders.
“I guess they just haven’t heard the screams yet,” he ventured.
“Screams?” Michael repeated. “I don’t hear any screams.”
Flitwick nodded, “Probably because you haven’t started making them yet.”
A cold dread suddenly filled the pit of Michael’s stomach, replacing the confusion he had felt since being woken.
That dread swiftly changed to terror as Flitwick grinned wickedly and held up his right hand, which was covered in a terrible conglomeration of leather glove and steel knives.
“Let’s see about waking up the rest of the house.”
-oOo-
It caused Ernie and Justin no little distress that their suggestion of a Ravenclaw being next had been proved to be all together too accurate. That Michael himself was the victim caused something of a stir. Nobody was too surprised during breakfast when several loud arguments broke out between Ravenclaw and Hufflepuff. Ernie and Justin’s words the previous day were now being interpreted as threats by the Ravenclaws, who were now blaming them for the killing.
Harry would have been relieved to find that, in at least the house of the supposedly intelligent; he was no longer the chief suspect.
Complicating matters was the fact that without those two houses running interference, the situation between Gryffindor and Slytherin began to deteriorate even faster. The professors were being kept very busy policing the students and even the Aurors were occasionally forced to step in. Any hope of uniting the houses against the Sorting Hat’s warning was rapidly becoming a pipedream.
“The school’s turning into a madhouse,” grumbled Ron as he and Harry’s closest friends entered the Hospital Wing for a visit.
“I honestly don’t understand why Hufflepuff and Ravenclaw are fighting like this,” Hermione muttered, leading the way to Harry’s bed.
“Yeah,” Neville quietly agreed. “It’s obvious the killer doesn’t care what house his - whoa!”
Neville’s foot slipped on the tiled floor and shot out from under him. Luckily he was able to retain his balance and thus not topple over, though he did teeter unsteadily for a moment.
“Careful, Neville,” cautioned Hermione.
“I slipped on something,” he explained. He looked down to see the source of his near accident and paled. “Oh Merlin.”
Looking to the infirmary floor, a smeared streak of deep red instantly caught everyone’s eye.
“You appear to have stepped in some blood, Neville,” noted Luna Lovegood, seeming to appear out of nowhere and startling the four Gryffindors.
“Bloody hell, Luna!” exclaimed Ron.
“Bloody indeed,” Luna agreed, bending over to have a closer look at the blood. She moaned in disappointment when Hermione Vanished it before she could complete her examination.
“Madam Pomfrey must have missed it,” Hermione concluded as she returned her wand to its pocket. She then noticed Ginny’s pale face, as well as the shivers that were causing the young redhead’s shoulder’s to tremble. “Ginny...”
“That was Michael’s blood,” Ginny whispered.
The others grimaced, both at the reminder of their classmate’s brutal murder and the fact that they had nearly forgotten that Ginny had been dating the boy. Even Ron, who had loudly disapproved of their relationship, could not bring himself to say something.
Hermione immediately crossed over and enveloped her in a tight hug.
“Oh, Ginny, I’m so sorry,” she told her.
Trying to lose herself in the embrace, Ginny found herself staring over Hermione’s shoulder and into Luna’s smiling face. Ron and Neville were hovering uncomfortably in the background.
“How can you smile like that at a time like this?”
Luna continued to beam happily at her and replied, “I have to smile now, because tomorrow is going to be worse.”
-oOo-
“This is a disaster, Amelia! A complete disaster!”
Amelia Bones thought she hardly needed Cornelius Fudge to tell her this rather obvious fact.
She watched as the Minister paced anxiously back and forth. There was something satisfying, despite the terrible cause, in seeing him like this.
“A disaster!”
“Yes, it is, Minister,” she agreed. “But complaining about it won’t solve the problem.”
“Yes... yes, you’re right,” agreed Fudge, halting in his frantic pacing and turning to her. “We need to do something about this, Amelia - and quickly!”
“I already have six squads stationed in the school,” she told him, ignoring the fact that those squads had done nothing to prevent the death of the latest victim. She went on, “I’ve ordered another six to join them - so we’ll be doubling security there.”
“Excellent. Excellent! That is exactly the kind of thing we need the public to see,” praised Fudge, a smile finally breaking across his face.
He returned to his desk and settled down in his chair, relaxing for the first time since she had entered his office.
“It’s a good thing you’re on the job, Amelia,” he continued. “I don’t know what I’d do if you weren’t here.”
Probably blame Harry Potter for everything and have him arrested, mused Madam Bones darkly. She was careful not to let any sign of her thoughts on the matter show on her face. She adjusted her monocle.
“We’re starting another round of questioning,” she reported, “but I don’t think we’ll find anything amongst the students or staff.”
“What about Harry Potter?” asked Fudge intently, his own thoughts no doubt turning in a similar direction to her earlier musings.
“He’s been unconscious under a healing coma in the school infirmary for the last three nights. That and his testimony under Umbridge’s truth serum make him the only person thus far that we can confirm as being entirely innocent in the matter.”
“I see,” Fudge muttered, obviously disappointed. “Is there any chance he might be lying?”
“None,” said Amelia with finality.
“Pity that.”
“As I said; I doubt we’ll find the killer in school’s staff or students.”
“You think it’s someone outside of Hogwarts doing this?” asked Fudge, as if the idea had not occurred to him. It probably had not.
“Yes,” confirmed Amelia. “If I were a betting witch, I’d place money on this being the work of the Dark Lord.”
Fudge almost fell out of his seat. “You-Know-Who is not back!” he immediately denied. “Honestly, Amelia, how can you possibly believe--”
Amelia cut him off. “Harry Potter has confirmed his return under truth serum.”
“That boy is lying!” yelled Fudge. “He’s delusional!”
“Veritaserum is the most powerful truth potion in the world,” Amelia asserted. “It does not allow lies, nor does it cater for delusions. Mr Potter is telling the truth.”
“But he--”
“The Dark Lord has returned.”
“He can’t be back, Amelia, he can’t,” insisted Fudge desperately. He was almost childish in his denial.
Amelia stared at him with a stony expression. It was the one she used to discomfort young Aurors that needed a firm hand. Fudge wilted under her gaze without much effort on her part.
“Whether you want to believe it or not, he is back,” she told him firmly. “Now while his return is troublesome and these murders are a grave problem, you have something else to worry about.”
“What’s that?” Fudge asked sulkily.
Amelia took great pleasure in the minister’s reaction as she explained the situation to him.
“The Dark Lord is back,” she said, “and sooner or later the public will find out about it.”
Mostly due to the fact that Amelia had met with the editor of the Daily Prophet and informed him about Potter’s testimony. She might also have mentioned that keeping quiet on the matter would result in him and his staff being arrested for ‘endangering the public’ by not alerting them to the threat.
Smiling thinly in anticipation, Amelia delivered the finishing blow. “And when they do - they are going to crucify you for lying about it.”
The sickly green shade of Fudge’s face was an unpleasant sight, but a strangely satisfying one.
-oOo-
Most people would assume that Vincent Crabbe and his constant companion Gregory Goyle were somewhat dull at the best, or near mindless thugs at the worst.
This was mostly due to the fact that they rarely bothered speaking in public and spent most of their time flanking Draco Malfoy like a pair of matching bookends.
These perceptions were, of course, perfectly true. In five years neither boy had said more than a dozen words to Harry Potter, despite having accompanied Draco in confrontations against him on a regular basis. The fact of the matter was they remained silent only because they saw no point in talking to someone who was not a friend or associate.
In truth, while they were hardly geniuses of the highest calibre, Crabbe and Goyle could be surprisingly erudite when they desired to be. It was well know in the Slytherin common room, if not the rest of the castle, that Crabbe was a rather good artist - easily on par with Dean Thomas. Goyle, on the other hand, while unable to draw even simple stick figures, was something of an aspiring poet; though his works tended to be a tad morbid and dreary, even by Slytherin standards.
Unfortunately for Crabbe, no measure of skill at drawing would help him at the moment.
“I float like a butterfly and I sting like a bee! Get ready for a smack down from the one and only - Freddy!”
Crabbe stared at the man who was bouncing lightly on his feet while making punching motions with his glove enclosed fists.
“You’re the one who’s been killing people, aren’t you?” he finally asked.
Freddy grinned back at him and replied with a short jab to the face. As Crabbe staggered back, hands going to his bleeding nose, the Mohammed Ali wannabe cackled.
“Ha! So you’re not as dumb as you look!”
Crabbe looked up at the man, momentarily giving up on staunching the blood. Freddy began to dance around him, his feet skipping across the springy floor of the boxing ring.
“Come on, Vinny,” he urged, “Put up yer dukes and show me all that muscle you’re so famous for!”
“I don’t know what game you’re playing--” began Crabbe. He was cut off by another jab, this one glancing off the side of his head.
“The game’s boxing, Vinny!”
Another jab followed, now to the other side of Crabbe’s head.
“The noble art of pugilism!”
Two quick blows rained in, moving away from Crabbe’s ringing noggin and centred on his ribs.
“Come on, Vinny! Remember the Marquees of Queensb--”
This time the punch was launched not by Freddy, but by a very aggravated Crabbe. His form was as sloppy as any untrained fighter could manage, but there was still enough force behind it to knock his opponent off his feet. Freddy was caught completely unprepared and took the right hook to the jaw without resistance.
“You’re just like Draco,” commented Crabbe, now standing over him. “Always talking.”
“Heh,” grunted Freddy, a grin still on his face but growing darker as he centred on the wizard.
He rose back to his feet and somehow delivered a vicious uppercut in the same movement.
“So’re you,” he observed wryly.
Cracking his neck to one side and then the other, he began to advance on the reeling Crabbe.
“Still,” he mused, slugging Crabbe in the stomach, “I’m happy you’re fighting back - that’ll make this last longer.”
With the wind knocked out of him there was no way for Crabbe to reply, so he responded the only way he could. He also confirmed his placement in Slytherin by cheating.
His kick landed square between Freddy’s legs.
“Fuckin’ hell!” yelped Freddy, staggering back and clutching his privates.
“The Marquees of Queensbury can kiss my sodding arse,” declared Crabbe.
He cracked his knuckles and began his own advance even as Freddy straightened up. He knew he was fighting a losing battle and was probably going to die in the process, but Crabbe was determined not to go out without a fight.
That this was the Gryffindor thing to do was his last rueful thought before he and Freddy met in the centre of the boxing ring and began to exchange blows.
-oOo-
Crabbe’s demise, having been beaten to death during the night, did nothing to improve the situation in the castle. While the students were shattered at this grim confirmation that things were continuing to get worse, the Slytherins were all but destroyed.
This now made if four of their number killed, three students and their head of house. That they had suffered as many losses as the other houses combined was still a sore point, but this latest death was enough that the fight had gone completely out of them. Their antagonism towards Gryffindor had disappeared entirely. They were too busy fearing for their lives to bother starting fights.
That the morning copy of the Daily Prophet led with a headline proclaiming Lord Voldemort’s return, did not help matters.
Those who had believed and supported Harry were a little smug and satisfied at being proven correct, but Crabbe’s death made it a slightly hollow victory.
“Here comes another one,” noted Ron, watching the doors to the Great Hall.
Glancing over, everyone caught sight of yet another pair of parents storming into the school. Both mother and father were pale, obviously anxious and eager to get their child and leave.
“I think that’s one of the first-year Slytherin’s parents,” said Hermione, watching as the pair hurried up to the head table and began conversing in hushed tones with Professor McGonagall.
“That’s what? Eight? Nine?” asked Neville.
“Eight families, eleven students,” confirmed Ginny.
This last murder, coupled with the public admission that Voldemort was back, had caused a deluge of concerned parents to fall upon Hogwarts and begin withdrawing their children.
The Patil twins, Padma and Parvati, had been the first. Their father, Bavesh Patil, had stormed into the Great Hall and almost dragged the two girls out of the school. The Daily Prophet had not yet been delivered at that point, but followed a few minutes later, at the same time as the Greengrass and Brocklehurst parents. There had been a steady stream of worried adults every few minutes since then.
“I’m actually kind of surprised mum hasn’t shown up yet,” commented Ron.
“At the very least she should have sent a howler,” agreed Ginny.
“Look; it’s Madam Bones,” announced Hermione, drawing their attention back to the entrance.
“Probably here to withdraw Susan,” suggested Ron.
“I don’t know,” said Neville.
The quartet watched as the head of the DMLE strode up to meet with Professor McGonagall. She waited until her conversation with the latest set of parents was done before stepping in close for a whispered conversation.
“If this keeps up, the school’ll be half empty by lunch,” noted Ron.
“Well, they probably are safer away from Hogwarts,” Neville reluctantly admitted.
“This wouldn’t be happening if Dumbledore was still here,” grumbled Ginny.
“Maybe they’ll bring him back,” suggested Ron.
“At this point I don’t know how much of a difference he would make,” opined Hermione unhappily.
“Maybe we should talk to the Order about getting Harry and us out of here and back to headquarters,” Ginny quietly suggested.
“Wait - I think McGonagall’s going to say something,” said Neville.
“May I have your attention please,” McGonagall called out, standing in front of the staff table with Madam Bones by her side.
It did not take long for the hall to grow quiet as the assembled students waited to hear whatever it was she would be announcing.
“In light of recent events,” McGonagall began, “and after consulting with the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, the school’s board of governors have decided... that Hogwarts is to be closed until further notice.”
In most situations, such a proclamation would have caused an uproar. After so many horrific murders, however, the thought of closing down the school was met with muted acceptance.
“Bloody hell,” gasped Ron.
“Looks like Luna was right; today is worse,” muttered Hermione. “Who would have thought?”
Since the assembled students were remaining mostly calm and quiet, there was no need for the professors to call for quiet before the announcements could continue. Instead, McGonagall only waited long enough for the disclosed information to sink in before she resumed speaking.
“Any students that do not leave today will floo to Diagon Alley tomorrow morning after breakfast, once arrangements have been made to collect you,” she finished.
“In the meanwhile, I ask that you all remain here in the Great Hall for the rest of the day, and please do not go anywhere alone,” declared Madam Bones.
“The school’s going to be emptied a lot sooner than lunch,” Neville commented to Ron.
-oOo-
She ran as if the You-Know-Who himself were chasing after her. All things considered, she would probably have preferred that he was.
Completely lost and disoriented in the strange Muggle building she was trapped inside, Marietta stumbled blindly down one pipe filled passage and, upon reaching an intersection, turned to flee down another.
“Boo!”
Coming face to face with Freddy Krueger, however, caused her flight to come to an abrupt halt. She skidded to a stop, trying to avoid crashing into her tormentor, losing her balance in the process and falling on her arse.
“Aaaaaaahh!”
She also gave out a cry of terror, even as she began to desperately scrabble backwards.
“Sorry, girly - it’s been fun, chasing you and all, but the game’s over,” Freddy told her as he began to advance.
Marietta rolled over onto her hand and knees, so that she could move faster, only to be confronted by a plain concrete wall that had somehow appeared to block her path.
A flick of Freddy’s hand left four thin trails of blood down her back as his knives cut through the back of her nightgown.
“Aaaaaahh!”
“Ah, I could listen to that sound all night,” declared Freddy happily.
Pressing up against the wall, Marietta desperately searched for a way to escape. Her quest ended as another slash of Freddy’s blades shredded the right sleeve of her nightgown and caused similar injuries on her arm.
After another scream, Marietta’s legs collapsed under her as she curled into a tight ball.
“Stop, stop, stop, stop, stop...” she chanted frantically.
“Don’t be ridiculous; it’s never going to stop!” Freddy chastised her.
“Why?” wailed Marietta.
Freddy paused, as if to think. “Hmm. ‘Cause it’s fun, of course!” he finally answered. “That, and since you and the others are the only ones I can play with, I might as well draw it out as long as I can.”
“Others?” asked Marietta tremulously.
“Yeah, you know - Draco, Sevvie and the rest.”
“But - but - but Potter!” stammered Marietta.
Freddy smiled, “Ah, yes, little Harry. Little innocent Harry. Little innocent Harry whose teachers tortured him to the point where he was able to summon me back into the realm of your dreams.”
“So it is his fault,” Marietta breathed in both vindication and horror.
“Well, actually, if it’s anyone’s fault - it’s yours,” Freddy corrected.
“Me?! How dare you even suggest such a thing?!” she exclaimed, indignation momentarily overriding her fear.
“Because I wouldn’t be here if you hadn’t betrayed him and his little friends - that made him angry. And when he’s angry at someone... well, that’s how I get to them.”
“Please... please let me go!” Marietta began to beg. “I’ll - I’ll make it up to him! I’ll never doubt his word again!”
“Y’know, that stupid brat would probably forgive you if you asked,” mused Freddy.
“Yes! Yes, I’ll go apologise to him as soon as I can,” promised Marietta, nodding quickly.
Freddy paused, as if he were considering her offer. Then he began to look around the boiler room. “Harry! Oh, Harry!” he called. He waited for an answer. When none came, he turned back to Marietta and shrugged, “Sorry, but he ain’t here to accept your apology.”
“He’s in the Hospital Wing! I can’t apologise now,” Marietta exclaimed frantically.
“Sorry,” Freddy apologised insincerely.
“No, please--”
“Apology time is over,” declared Freddy.
With a spin, Freddy changed clothes. His grimy brown trousers became smooth, clean black, while his tattered green and red sweater became a pristine white chef’s jacket. A chef’s mushroom hat, replacing his battered fedora, completed the transformation.
He stood for a moment, allowing Marietta to see and appreciate his new outfit.
“Tada!”
Freddy then pulled a butcher’s meat cleaver out from behind him - only this meat cleaver was unnaturally large; the blade being nearly a yard long and half that deep. The immaculately polished stainless steel gleamed brilliantly, if wickedly, in the subdued lighting of the boiler room.
“It’s time for some frog legs gumbo!”
“I’m not a frog!” protested Marietta in a panic, pressing desperately back against the wall.
“Fine, we can make a bird’s nest soup instead,” shrugged Freddy, alluding to her place in Ravenclaw.
He lifted the blade high, causing Marietta to shriek in terror, and then blurred into action. He attacked her with terrible fury, but also with great precision. His every slice shredded her already bloody nightgown and left a thin and shallow cut in the skin underneath.
Marietta’s screams continued to rise, louder and longer, as Freddy continued to lash out at her a dozen times a second. It might have lasted less than a minute, from start to end, but by the time he stepped back, Marietta’s clothes were little more than tattered strips of fabric that could no longer cover her blood soaked body.
“Ugh,” Freddy grimaced, taking in the girl’s all but naked form. “I hate it when the bird’s nest is too big.”
By this point Marietta had long since stopped begging for mercy. She had even stopped her pleas to die, thus ending her torment. All she could now manage was a mindless wail of agony that only paused when she broke to gasp for breath.
Freddy surveyed his work and smile with satisfaction. He truly had outdone himself this time; the girl’s spirit had been broken even more thoroughly than her body.
But, he reluctantly admitted to himself, all good things eventually had to end.
“Now, normally I make a point of playing with my food,” explained Freddy, even though it was doubtful Marietta could hear him over her screams. “But I have another appointment soon, so...”
He hefted the meat cleaver high over his head and then repeated his earlier attack, only this time making sure that each blow and each strike of the blade cut down to bone.
By the time he stopped, Marietta had been reduced to a pile of diced meat that was barely recognisable as having once been human.
Tossing aside his chef’s hat and discarding the now blood stained white uniform, Freddy walked away from the rapidly cooling body. He absently scraped his knives against the exposed piping as he went.
“Now then,” he mused, stroking his chin. “Who’s next?”
TBC...