A Dream For The Dead

A Dream For The Dead

Chapter 18

Suffer All The Children

Dear Dad,

I’m getting really worried. Scorpius got an Owl from his Grandmum saying his Dad is in the hospital. She wouldn’t explain much except to say that he would be alright and that he loves Scorpius and that Scor shouldn’t worry, but… then James came over and showed us the Daily Prophet.

Dad it says that Mr. Malfoy’s broom exploded! It says that the fire formed some symbols but it didn’t say what and then it said that they thought someone was trying to sabotage Mr. Malfoy! Said that someone was trying to kill him, or something.

Is it true Dad? It can’t be, can it? He’s a famous Seeker! He’s… he’s Scorpius’ dad! Why would someone want to hurt him? Why would anyone do something so evil, Dad?

I tried to calm Scorpius down, tell him that you are the best Auror at the Ministry and that you would take care of everything. You will, won’t you, Dad? You’ll keep Mr. Malfoy safe and make sure no one hurts him? I know you’ll find whoever did this. You always catch the bad guys and you always know when James or I’ve done something wrong.

You’re the best there is.

Please, Dad. I can’t imagine how scared Scorpius must be… I can’t imagine what it would be like to think I was losing you, Dad. Every time I try to put myself in his place, it just hurts too much. I don’t want him to lose his father. Like Teddy…

I miss you, Dad.

Love,
Albus Severus

+++++

Innocence is tricky. As an intangible, innocence is handed to everyone at the start of Life. It is powerful and protective around the minds of the young, sheltering them from the harmful weight of something as dangerous as knowledge. It wraps itself around the soul and embeds itself into the psyche, holding on for dear life as the ravages of time eventually pull at it, like strings.

But just as strong as innocence can be, it is also infinitely fragile. It can shatter and scatter with the slightest push, given by the right act of cruelty, the right moment of pain, the right beat of disappointment. It can crumble around even the purest soul under the weight of one, single experience. Innocence can protect against the unspoken evils of knowledge and nature, but cannot withstand the whip of hatred and cynicism.

Innocence is so easily lost.

Harry lost his innocence very young. He could barely remember a time when he had that kind of hope that only comes with innocence and youth. He suspected that the last time he had felt the kind of shining hope that children feel was when he parents were still alive.

Thirty-six years was a long time to live without hope.

Albus Severus, however, still had most of his innocence. He had experienced small disappointments, small losses, in his life, that had hinted to his mind that not everything would always turn out for the better, not everything would always be fair. But as of yet he had not encountered one of those acts of cruelty or experiences of disappointment so powerful that all of his innocence disappeared.

Even the one thing in his life that should, by any reasonable standards, have made him cynical to the world, had not struck him so deeply as to kill his hope. Harry was still amazed at –and forever deeply grateful for –Al’s uncanny ability to keep faith.

But something was threatening his son’s innocence, now, and what hurt Harry most was that he wasn’t sure he could adequately protect him this time.

How, after all, can you protect your own child from learning, as they must inevitably do, that you are not invincible, not infallible, not super-human?

That you don’t, in fact, have all the answers.

Harry clutched the letter his middle child had sent him and shut his eyes, fighting off an onslaught of guilt and worry. He bit his lip so hard that he was sure it would explode and bleed down his chin. He did not care.

He had promised too many people, already, that he would protect Malfoy from an unforeseeable danger. Harry had no way of knowing for certain that he would manage to keep Malfoy safe, or alive. He had now way of knowing what the future held. He had no way of knowing that he wouldn’t fail.

The fact that his son had so much unconditional faith in him should have been encouraging, should have been empowering. Instead it was harrowing.

He had already responded and promised, yet again, the he would keep Malfoy safe and that neither Al nor Scorpius should worry. But he was beginning to doubt himself.

He had already allowed Malfoy to be seriously injured while he should have been watching. Malfoy could have died, whatever the details of the spell said. He could have been killed because Harry was too busy with his own pride, his own stubbornness, to pay proper attention and do his job as he was supposed to.

Harry let the letter flutter to his desk and he gripped his hair, tugging slightly as he leaned against the heels of his hands. His glasses slid to the end of his nose. He had been unable to sleep at night, tossing and turning, trying to riddle out the details of the case after every long day at work. Then, when he couldn’t bear to toss and turn any longer, he would get up and go back to work. He was there before anyone else arrived and stayed long after they had all gone home.

He took a deep breath and then released his hair, leaning back against his chair. He needed to get a grip. It wouldn’t do to dwell on guilt, nor to doubt himself. Doubt was only the seed of failure.

He would simply need to swallow his pride, shove his own discomfort aside, and do what needed to be done. He would need to go to Malfoy and stick by his side as much as possible, following him to every practice, every interview, meeting, social engagement there was. He wouldn’t allow himself to let Malfoy out of his sight.

After he was released from the hospital, anyway.

Harry nodded in determination and put away his son’s letter. He began to reorder the papers on his desk when his office door flew violently open, without so much as a knock as warning, and a man strutted into his office. Harry quickly recovered himself from the shock and allowed his face to fall into a suitably unimpressed expression.

“Potter,” the man proclaimed by way of greeting. He stood, broad-shouldered and squared, before Harry’s desk, staring down his nose. Harry heaved a silent sigh.

“Oh, McLaggen,” he said, completely monotone. “Didn’t notice you come in.”

McLaggen gave a haughy, humourless chuckle in the style of Vernon Dursley and then leaned in what he clearly thought to be an intimidating way over Harry’s desk. Harry did not move back as McLaggen’s face came within inches of his own. He gave McLaggen nothing but a deadpanned look.

“What’s this I hear about you investigating my broomstick testers?” the other man demanded in the same haughty manner. “Sneaking around in my department to spy on my workers?”

It took all of Harry’s training and willpower not to punch McLaggen under the chin and snap his neck back. He could have done it, too. It wouldn’t have required that much effort.

“I’m not investigating the broomstick testers,” Harry answered in the same toneless voice, through his teeth. “I was questioning them. There is a subtle difference.” He ran his tongue along the edge of his teeth. “Nor am I, in any way, sneaking. Kingsley sent you an interdepartmental memo. I trust that you received it and if you did not, then it is hardly my problem.”

McLaggen sneered and leaned back, away from the desk, to stand straight. Apparently he had caught on to Harry’s slightly derisive words and was not pleased. Harry could not have cared less.

“Yes,” he said with distaste. “You couldn’t even man up enough to tell me personally, could you, Potter? Had to run to the Minister to send a memo.”

Harry was sure that no matter what he said to McLaggen, the man would find some way to make it seem cowardly and proclaim to the world that Harry had no bollocks.

Once more, it should be noted, that Harry could not have cared less.

“Perhaps you are unaware of this, Cormac,” Harry answered, biting back Because of your limited brain function. “But in cases of internal investigations or questionings, an application must first be made to the Minister. The fact that he was the one to inform you of the pending interrogation of your workers was a matter of procedure and not a question of my manhood, whatever else you might think.”

McLaggen snorted and folded his arms over his massive chest. He had stopped playing Quidditch long ago, due mainly to the fact that no one in the League would have him. As a result, he had grown a rather sizeable gut. He reminded Harry distantly of Ludo Bagman but with none of the friendliness and all of the cowardly sleeze.

“Right,” McLaggen muttered. “I trust you didn’t find anything. My broomstick testers are highly trained and have never slipped up yet. They did not tamper with any broomstick.”

Harry fought a rather epic internal battle with his eyes, struggling so as to not roll them at McLaggen.

“There is no evidence to suggest they tampered with the broom in question, no,” Harry admitted coldly. “But that does not mean they have never slipped up. Clearly, given the situation, their skills have to be called into question. They performed all the basic identifier spells and detector charms and yet, still, the broomstick exploded. This tells me that either your testers were the ones to set the curse in the first place, or else that your testing spells are simply not thorough enough.” McLaggen opened his mouth to object but Harry cut him off, leaving him to look rather like a hooked cod. “Given that my interrogations have offered me no viable leads in your department, I am forced to assume the latter is more likely. Perhaps you should look into improving your identifier spells, McLaggen.”

“Hmph,” he responded, unable to formulate a better remark in such a short time. He bristled. “My spells don’t need improving, Potter.” His face turned a strange shade of puce that only served to make the comparison to Vernon Dursley more complete in Harry’s mind. “And what’s this about a broom exploding? This isn’t the Malfoy case, is it?”

“That is of no consequence to you,” Harry shot, his tone sharpening now. His nerves had been rubbed raw by McLaggen and his bloody pride for far too long. He longed for the brute to give him a reason, any reason, to arrest him.

McLaggen’s face split into a smug look of triumph. It was deeply unpleasant.

“No one should be taking Malfoy’s case seriously,” he proclaimed in his infuriating know-it-all fashion. It was mostly annoying because McLaggen knew far from all. “He’s a bloody attention whore and a poncey sodding wanker, at that. If anyone’s responsible for his so-called ‘explosion’, it’s only him.” McLaggen made a noise of derision. “Serves him right, too.”

Harry had had quite enough.

“Get out,” he ordered harshly, getting to his feet and glaring imperatively at McLaggen. Harry was much slighter than the other man, but far more intimidating. His eyes flashed dangerously when a look of mild amusement crossed McLaggen’s face. “Get the fuck out of my office, McLaggen, or, so help me Merlin, I will show you what it is to not have bollocks.”

McLaggen shot Harry a contemptuous look but clearly did not think it wise to push his luck. He turned and left in as much of a huff as he arrived, slamming the door behind him and muttering something untoward about “the Chosen One” and “unfair privileges”. Harry glared at the vacated spot on his floor and slowly let himself sink back into his chair.

He was beginning to see, first hand, precisely why Malfoy had so little faith in the Ministry, and refused help so adamantly. There were countless people who bore deep-seated prejudices against him and wished him ill. He could do no right, by the public. His critics attacked him when he did well, accusing him of cheating and other crimes. When he failed in something they puffed up their chests like bristling birds and pronounced that they had been right all along. When he was hurt and abused by the public, made to look like a victim, they ruffled their hate-slicked feathers and argued that he brought it on himself.

Harry was raw from the ravages of his own frustration. He felt such strong emotions in relation to Malfoy, no matter what they might be. He wanted to hate the man still, wanted to loathe him if only to maintain something from the energy and movement of his youth, but he couldn’t. He found himself getting angry with Malfoy for pushing him away, then confused and jarred by his own desire to be close to the man who caused him so much grief. Harry felt a pull, stronger than any he had ever felt before, when he was around Malfoy and suddenly all of his emotions bubbled just below the surface of his skin, threatening to tear him open and spill out.

He couldn’t understand them at all. All he knew, no matter what else, was that he did care about what happened to the bloody git.

That, in itself, produced another problem for Harry. As the case changed and as things progressed, he was beginning to realize just how inadequate he really was. He couldn’t break this case no matter how hard he tried. He only came up with short leads and slim facts. The puzzle was increasing in complexity with every movement and Harry couldn’t quite keep up.

It was then, as he stared down at the accounts he had taken from the broomstick testers, that he realized just how much he needed a partner.

Harry sighed, pulled off his glasses and rubbed the bridge of his nose. He picked up one of the shards of wood from Malfoy’s broom and tilted it in the light. It glittered, shining green, gold and white. The spells cast on the wood to reveal the enchanments that caused it to explode made it so that the magic was visible to the naked eye. As Harry observed it, holding it up within inches of his nose, he realized that the glittering magic was inlaid into the wood, beneath the polish.

That, coupled with his background checks on all of the broomstick testers, suggested that the enchantment was placed on the broom before it was even finished, sometime during the manufacturing of it.

The spells that were revealed on the wood told Harry little more than the Healers had about the nature of the curse itself. Though along with the explosive magic, the detector spells pulled up the levitation and steering charms of the broom. It shouldn’t have done that if the broom was produced normally.

“The curse was blended in with the basic broom spells,” Harry muttered to himself, squinting to see more clearly. He was getting a headache. “But that can’t be…”

Harry frowned and dropped the piece of wood back onto the desk and leaned back. He replaced his glasses on his nose as he tried to riddle out the answer. As he stared off into nothingness, no answer forthcoming, Seamus walked into the office.

“Hey, Harry,” he said merrily, walking over to his desk with a thick file in his hands. “Just came from Knockturn Alley. Fuller and I scared the wits out of some kids there, sneaking about Borgin and Burke’s. Should’a seen ‘em, Harry. They were shaking like mad when we said that underage wizards can be arrested for lurking in known areas of Dark Magic. Nearly soiled themselves.”

Seamus laughed bemusedly to himself but Harry wasn’t really listening. He blinked a number of times before sitting up and swiveling his chair to face Seamus directly.

“Say, what do you know about the production of broomsticks?” Harry asked rapidly. He tried to make it conversational but failed. Seamus eyed him a moment and his lips quirked into a smile.

“Shouldn’t you be asking someone like McLaggen?” Seamus paused and Harry gave him a look. He laughed and then nodded. “Right, never mind. I take that back.” He sat himself down at his desk and tented his fingers in a very uncharacteristic expression. “Well, that depends. What are you looking to find out?”

Harry shifted in his chair, weighing out his options. He didn’t like to talk too candidly about his cases, but he found he didn’t have much choice.

“Well, would it be possible,” he began slowly, carefully choosing his words. “To inlay a curse with the flying spells on a broomstick?”

Seamus gave him a puzzled expression.

“Sure, I suppose,” he answered with a shrug. “It wouldn’t be that hard, I imagine.”

Harry perched himself on the edge of his chair and sat straighter. He licked his lips and glanced momentarily at the shards on his desk.

“Wouldn’t it come up during the numerous quality and safety assessments?” Seamus pondered the question for a few moments, nibbling on his lower lip.

“Well,” he began, scratching his chin. “If it’s placed under the polish, then it wouldn’t be able to come up. The polish on a broom handle is magical. It blocks other magic from altering the basic flying spells. That’s why most tampering cases aren’t very serious. The magic can’t penetrate into the broom. But if the curse was already in the wood, then our basic tests couldn’t identify it.”

Harry frowned and crossed his arms. That wasn’t right. What was the point of their detector spells then?

“But then, how did my diagnostics uncover the magic?” Harry demanded. He pressed his fingers to his temple. Perhaps Seamus didn’t know what he was talking about at all.

“Because the wood was broken,” Seamus explained. There were surfaces not covered in polish. That would allow the magic to be affected.”

Harry blinked. Was that it? Was it that simple? It couldn’t be.

No. Certainly the whole case wouldn’t rest on one simple detail like polish.

“So, you’re saying,” Harry assessed. “That one of the wizards who produces broomsticks could have inlaid a curse with the basic charms and then covered his tracks with polish?”

It seemed somewhat… easy.

Seamus turned to his desk.

“It’s possible,” he said, oddly. “But not likely. Not with one broomstick, anyway. The companies produce broomsticks in batches, sending out dozens at a time to stores or buyers. They don’t just make them individually based on a request basis.” Seamus turned. “There would be no logic in cursing only one broom to sabotage one person when they couldn’t know who was buying the broom, or that it would end up in the hands of their target.”

Harry’s face fell.

Of course it wouldn’t be that easy.

“Right,” he answered, disappointed. He turned back to his files. “Thanks.”

He would have to find some other answer. Malfoy had ordered his broom from Quality Quidditch Supplies. They ordered brooms in batches. It just… didn’t seem logical.

Malfoy’s broom wasn’t specially made to order, after all.

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A/N: I kind of feel better about this now. Thanks for the lovely reviews! Er, I had fun with McLaggen. He always annoyed me deeply in the books and I get to poke fun at him now. Hurrah. I suspect he annoyed Harry too, though, so that's ok.

kilmorden: I'm so happy you like it! :) I've been very focused on their internal struggles in this. It's rather key to the whole thing and I am very happy that you appreciate the detail. *huggles*

DrarryForever-x: Haha yes, Aurora is... special. XD And I do think that Harry would heartily object to anyone but him painting Draco. He just doesn't know it yet, lol. *snug*

camatiekat: LOL you had me worried there for a moment that I had somehow chopped my chapter short. XD More 'vague' thoughts on the way too. Hehe and not so vague ones. And more about the darkness later too. BUAHAH. *love*

hieisdragoness18: heheh yes. XD He's somewhat unaware of what he's doing though, lol. *hugs*

Ley: HI! :D Narcissa FTW. I love her. I think Harry really does have a problem when it comes to dealing with mothers. He never managed to really deal with Mrs. Weasley well either, hehehe. *snuggles*

Akira_Kushrenada_Merquize: I really appreciate your comment. Really. Thank you :) I was worried about losing my way but I'm glad that it has been consistent. Writer's block will not stand in my way even if it does show up, hehe. *hearts*

uncommon: I'm glad you like it! And I did not even KNOW you could enable/disable anonymous comments... O_O I will look into that and figure it out. Seriously. I'm useless with teh intranetz XD *hugs*

Sarigal: Thank you! I'm glad you're enjoying it. More is on the way! hehe *hug*