Never A Memory

~Ghosts of Hochberg~


The Black Forest was large and thick, stretching for acre upon acre, kilometer upon kilometer, and the two Aurors--their exorcist in tow--were beginning to lose hope as they searched the woods that surrounded the Hochberg Castle.

Griphook the Goblin was ever elusive.

Harry, especially, was becoming more and more frustrated as the days slipped by. Even if they left for England that morning, once they returned to the Ministry of Magic, Draco would have only a week and a half before the deadline the Minister allotted to them.

They were running out of time.

Harry had insisted that they continued their search long into the night the night prior, stopping only in the small hours of the morning to build a campfire that would warm their hands and feet before pressing on. Morning stretched into midday, and midday stretched into the cooling evening hours.

Ron, who had whined under his breath about needing a break for the past three hours, finally put his foot down and sat on a large boulder, refusing to budge until they had had supper.

"Ron--"

"Harry." Ron looked mutinous.

Harry sighed. "Fine. But let's make it quick."

Father Ernst Alt had been an ever silent and uncomplaining comrade during their travels, though the two Aurors often discussed sending one of them back early to escort Alt straight to the Ministry. The priest was uncomplaining, but he was elderly. This constant hiking through the rugged terrain of the Black Forest was wearing on him. They could tell.

Ron handed a bowl of stew to the priest, who thanked him, and then he went back to sit by Harry. Ron offered him a bowl of stew, but Harry shook his head.

For some peculiar reason, Harry had been feeling a strange sense of repulsion every time he tried to drink water or eat a morsel of food. Eve time he tried to nourish himself, no matter how hungry or thirsty he was, a voice in his head--sounding oddly like Draco--whispered "...don't...don't..." And though he was dizzy with hunger and his tongue felt like a parched thing in his mouth, Harry complied with the urging in his mind; and he felt wiser for it.

"I think one of us should take him back in the morning if we can't find Griphook by then," Ron murmured to his partner, taking a spoon and eating the stew himself.

"I'm beginning to agree with you," Harry conceded. "I'll stay and look for the Goblin. You take him back."

"If you insist," Ron replied instantly. Hiking in the woods was never really his thing.

Harry gave his partner a sour look. "Git."

"Wanker."

Harry grinned and glanced over at Father Alt, chewing on his lip as he did so. It felt strange to have this man in their company...but at the same time, Harry couldn't deny the queer sense of relief he felt when he noticed the man's presence at his elbow, or the comfort that accompanied the priest's shadow.

It almost felt as if it was a good idea to have him along. Harry remembered the sensation that coursed through his body the first time he ever held the Sword of Godric Gryffindor. He remembered how strong he had felt and how it was almost like everything that was good and right in the world protected him as he held it.

That was how he felt around Father Alt; and he wondered if perhaps--just perhaps--this priest, this failed exorcist, was a holy man after all.

Harry turned back to Ron. “How are we going to get the Sword from the Goblin? Remember last time?”

Ron recollected the dragon and the heat of LeStrange’s vault, and he shuddered. “Yeah, mate. I remember.”

“Do you think we’ll have to steal it?”

“I hope not.”

~*~

Soon after, the trio re-packed their things and moved on, heading in the direction of the Hochberg Castle; hoping they would reach it before it became too dark. The castle itself was the one place they had yet to search. They didn't particularly want to go into the ruins at night, heeding the old woman's warnings about ghosts and strange phenomena; but if Griphook wasn't in the forest surrounding the castle, the Goblin may very well be IN the castle.

It truly was a ruin. Most of the ceiling structures had crumbled off and much of it was overgrown with the greenery from the forest surrounding it. The walls were drafty and the cellars were muddy. Still, even in the dark, Hochberg Castle held a contending majesty.

"Wow," Ron said, turning in a circle.

"Yeah," Harry agreed. "Keep a weather eye out."

They searched the ruin for the better part of two hours, finding nothing. Suddenly, Ron, who stood on an unsteady part of the battlements, let out a sharp cry. Harry and Father Alt came at a run, nearly falling to their death when a large block of stone collapsed beneath their feet, and finally reached the red-headed Auror.

Harry peered into the darkness, following the direction Ron was pointing in. Soon, he spotted it.

A hut. Small, sturdy, and with an unmistakable gilded door, with that unmistakable Goblin design. "Hot damn," Ron breathed. "We found him."

"Let's go," Harry ordered, his pulse racing in anticipation. "And watch your step."

Abruptly, Harry felt like he had been dowsed with a bucket of ice water. Gasping, he watched a uniformed ghost pull out of his chest and fly away from him. Pausing, he held out his hand to stop Ron and Father Alt.

"Ron," Harry whispered. "Have you ever seen a ghost like that?"

The spirit was not the usual pale blue-white. The ghost...almost looked like he was on fire. Reds and oranges licked off of his transparent skin like flames, casting an eerie glow over the triumvirate.

"Harry...look, there's more."

Ron was right. A dozen more spirits began to materialize. And they all looked as if they were aflame.

They wore dour expressions and Harry began to feel nervous. Save for one or two, the ghosts of Hogwarts that he was used to were generally kind, never feeling it necessary to wreak out their wrath on the living. These ghosts were different. These spirits were angry.

"Hell fire," Father Alt murmured behind him. "Beware, young magician."

Harry gritted his teeth. "Let us pass," he commanded. "We are leaving this place. We will not come back."

A spiral of flame erupted from one of the spirits and hit Harry squarely in the chest. Harry gasped, pain blossoming in his body, as his eyes rolled into the back of his head. Ron caught him as the young Auror passed out. "Fuck," Ron swore.

"I warned him," Father Alt muttered in halting English, retrieving a golden cross from his robes. "Go. I will hold them."

"You're sure?" Ron clarified as he hoisted Harry's arm around his neck and prepared to drag him away.

The priest nodded, chanting under his breath in German and glaring across the space dividing them from the spirits. The ghosts' attention seemed to be solely on Father Alt now and Ron made good time in carefully picking his way down from the battlements.

Ron carried Harry all the way to the edge of the forest before laying him down and preparing to go back for the priest. He set off at a sprint when he heard a shout and saw a blaze of white erupt over the Hochberg Castle, retrieving his wand quickly from his sleeve.

Suddenly, Ron stopped dead in his tracks when he spotted a figure approaching him from the shadows covering the entrance to Hochberg. "Name yourself."

"Father Ernst Alt," the figure said. "Exorcist for the Vatican. Stationed in Bavaria, Germany."

Ron sighed with relief, lowering his wand. "What happened?!"

The priest stuffed his cross back into his robes. "I sent them back."

"To where?"

Father Alt met Ron's eyes. "Hell," he said simply.

"Oh." Ron chewed on is lip as he led them back to where he had laid Harry down. "What were they?"

"Spirits of Thule Mystics." Father Alt looked incredibly sad for a moment. "When one experiments with hell's fire, it consumes...everything."

The Thule Society, an underground elitist movement of aristocrats led by mystics who began financing the Nazi Party in the early 1930’s, were rumored to conduct all sorts of strange experiments. Discovering the secret to Hell’s Fire—whatever it was—and being burned up by it, didn’t seem too farfetched a thing to Ron.

Ron nodded. "I see. What are we going to do with Harry?"

"Young magicians are resilient. He will wake."

Suddenly he froze. "Did you hear that?"

"What?"

"That."

Alt looked up and listened with Ron as a brush nearby rustled again.

"Harry Potter," a surly voice whispered from behind the brush.

"Who's there?" Ron demanded.

"It is I," the voice said as a small creature emerged from the shifting shadows. "Griphook."

"What the devil is that?" Father Alt hissed, reaching for his cross. "Demon."

Griphook glared at the exorcist. "Insolent human. I am no demon."

"He's the one we've been looking for," Ron said, placing a restraining hand on Alt's arm. "He's a Goblin."

Griphook peered down at Harry's sleeping form. "You have met with the ghosts of Hochberg."

"Yes," Ron said.

"Bring him," Griphook demanded before turning and shuffling back into the darkness.

~*~

In and out.

There and back again.

Almost...

But not quite.

Too much and never, ever enough.

Through the haze, he saw Draco reach out and push his unruly black bangs away from his eyes, a strange, fleeting look in the Slytherin's smirking gaze.

Wake up, Harry.

No. I don't want to.

Draco pulled away, a smile in his silver, flashing eyes.

I'm running out of time. Wake up.

I want to stay.

Not here.

Why not?

Those flashing gray eyes turned hard. Because I am evermore than memory.

You could never be just a memory.

I will be if you do not wake.

"When has he eaten last?"

"Two days ago; maybe three. He's been odd about when he'll eat or sleep."

Almost, but not quite.

He peered through the haze, wondering why it was becoming more and more difficult to see the Malfoy heir.

Protect me, Potter.

I will. I swore it.

As you swore to kill me.

Only if I run out of time. I owe you a life debt.

Silver piercing eyes. How can a color so cold look so sad? Harry, you must wake. You must return.

"I see. So that is why his magic was weak against the hell fire."

"I think he's waking up."

Don't leave. He began to panic. He could barely see him anymore.

"Harry?"

Harry's emerald eyes snapped open and he sat straight up with a start. Father Ernst Alt was there beside Ron. Griphook sat on a stool to his left. They were all staring hard at him.

"You okay, mate?" Ron asked.

Harry blinked at him. Ron was holding the Sword of Godric Gryffindor. Harry whirled to his left, gaping at the surly Goblin. "You'll let us have it?"

Griphook shrugged. "Provided you'll give it back when you're through. Your partner has already sworn it."

Harry turned back to Ron, who was grinning ear to ear. "How...?"

"I asked for it," Ron said simply. "Griphook was surprised at my respectful appeal."

Harry's green eyes widened with shock. "You asked for it...politely?"

Ron rolled his eyes. "Really, Harry, sometimes I think you forget who I'm engaged to."

~*~

Rita Skeeter glanced up and grinned her red lipsticked smile as Dolores Umbridge walked into her office at the Daily Prophet's Headquarters.

"Have you found anything?" Umbridge asked in her sugar-coated, malice-laced voice.

"Some things, but nothing to really--shall we say?--exploit."

Umbridge's nostrils flared in a most unseemly way. "Something is going on with that Malfoy. I know it."

"Yes, well, everything concerning his case has been very 'hush hush'," Skeeter replied. "If we can't get at least one interview from the inside..." Rita Skeeter let her voice trail off for the added effect.

Umbridge sat uninvited and poured herself a cup of tea, adding a ridiculous number of sugar cubes to the steaming brew. "And if I could provide an interview with, say, and interesting dose of Veritiserum...?"

Rita Skeeter laughed delightedly. "Then, my dear Dolores, we would have a paper, you and I. Who did you have in mind?"

"The one that was left behind."

Rita smiled slowly. "How juicy..."

~*~