(A/N: My last few weeks have been, without fear of exaggeration, Total Chaos. My sincere thanks to all of you for your patience… and to MirielleGrey, my alpha-and-omega beta.
For those who haven't been tracking the story's internal chronology, this chapter (like the last couple) takes place on 19 Sept 2013. Yes, I did it on purpose.)
(Disclaimer: All right, we'll settle this by majority vote. If you think Harry and Hermione belong to Jo Rowling, raise your left hand. If you think they belong to me, raise your right hand. If you think Harry and Hermione belong to each other… vox populi vox dei.)
*
"Coming Back Late"
by Paracelsus
*
XXVIII: Life Is Details
*
Eldritch would probably have stayed in his office in the Department of Mysteries, obedient to the Ministry's lockdown protocols, if he hadn't heard the clap of thunder from the Death Chamber. He'd spent too much time and effort trying to solve that particular Mystery to ignore a signal like that, Ministry protocols be damned.
Stopping only to collect his spell residue detector, he ran down the corridor to the Chamber door. The Number Two Analyzer stood to one side - and some fool had turned it off! A quick flick of his wand and it resumed its function. Eldritch saw one of the Ministry house-elves standing near the door, but gave it no more mind than usual… the elves knew by now, surely, about the impassible barrier across the door…
And as he thought of it, he absently brushed his fingers across the barrier - and nearly fell on his face, as his fingers encountered no resistance. The barrier… was gone.
He looked into the Chamber. The Arch was still there, but the Veil - the Veil wasn't merely fluttering as though in a gentle breeze, as it usually did. It was flapping wildly as though in a gale! The sight so astonished Eldritch that, for a moment, he didn't notice what had changed in the Chamber.
When he did notice, he shouted over his shoulder without taking his eyes off the scene. "Brymston! Michaels! Come here now!" He crouched down, using the doorframe as cover, and kept his wand trained on the Arch. Eldritch hoped he wouldn't need reinforcements, but at this point, he didn't know what to expect.
For the runes had vanished. The Arch had resumed its former appearance: ancient, featureless stone once again.
And something besides wind was disturbing the Veil. For the first time in the recorded history of any magical race, something was coming out of the Arch.
*
The cold air smote Harry's bare skin, and he squinted into the light as he emerged from the Arch. His hands were close to his breast, cupped together, sheltering what looked like a candle flame without a candle. He couldn't travel magically and carry it - no Apparation of any sort - he would have to walk, as fast as he dared without losing that tiny flame.
Urgency seemed to lend strength to his old bones: he found himself taking the stairs out of the Chamber two at a time. There were Unspeakables at the door, whom he ignored: his gaze was fixed on Canby. "Where is Hermione?" he asked, his voice tight.
"C-c-conference room, s-sir," stuttered the elf.
"Clear the way for me."
Canby nodded sharply and dashed away. Harry started to follow. One of the Unspeakables made a move to block his way, to ask some question, to hinder him for some totally inconsequential reason.
Harry spared him one glance.
The Unspeakable hastily stepped back. Harry didn't break stride… he walked rapidly after Canby, keeping his precious cargo safe. Canby made sure every door was open, every corridor cleared, so that Harry didn't have to do anything but keep walking.
He looked neither right nor left at the eyes he knew would be staring at him. Panic was growing deep in his stomach, panic born of an irrational fear of being noticed, of being crowded, of crowds. But Harry kept his roiling anxiety under iron control, so that it neither showed in his face nor slowed his steps. He allowed himself to think of nothing but his goal.
Hermione.
By the time he reached the conference room on the Atrium level, he knew he was being followed by a pack of curious Ministry employees, with Eldritch and his team of Unforgivables at the lead. He ignored them, as he swept his eyes across the scene before him, picking out individual tableaux from the chaos and confusion:
There was Ron, sitting on the floor, one hand holding a bloodied shoulder, while a green-robed wizard, presumably a Healer, probed the wound with his wand.
There was Fatima, lying flat on the floor, motionless - unconscious or dead, Harry couldn't tell - with a gaggle of house-elves clumped around her. Harry couldn't see what they were doing, but it didn't bode well for the elf.
There was Kingsley Shacklebolt. His wheelchair's back had been folded (or Transfigured) back, and its leg supports brought up - turning the chair into a functional hospital gurney. His body lay upon it, stilled in death; Gawaine Robards was pulling Kingsley's cloak over his face with an air of sad finality.
There… there was Hermione. A crowd of witches and wizards, some from the delegations, others from the Ministry, were standing around her body; their faces showed everything from bewilderment to shock to sorrow. Croaker was kneeling next to her, cutting away the last of the ropes. He was making tiny adjustments to her limp hands and feet, straightening her body and making it lie neatly… an oddly touching gesture from the inscrutable Head of the Unspeakables.
But all activity, all conversation, all movement ceased when Harry entered the room. Harry told himself that it was the sight of a naked old man that had seized their attention: surely, in his current state of decrepitude, no one would identify him as the young hero dead these many years.
Canby had begun to lead Harry to where Hermione lay - then, seeing Harry stride quickly to her side, moved away to join the elves around Fatima's body. Harry didn't notice… nor would have noticed if a pack of dinosaurs had chosen that moment to stampede through the conference room. His attention was far more focused on Hermione than it had ever been on a Golden Snitch.
Croaker made no move to get out of the way as Harry approached. Harry ignored him. Kneeling beside Hermione's body, he brought his cupped hands from his breast to hers. Cautiously he opened his hands, releasing the tiny spark of light he held between them… the spark drifted downwards, and seemed to hesitate for an instant before it was absorbed into her body.
Her chest rose and fell. Hermione gave a husky cough, licked her lips, and forced her eyes to open. "H-Ha…?" she whispered.
His sense of relief was so sudden, and so complete, that he almost felt he'd gone weightless. The knots of anxiety in his stomach dissolved away, and he found his face actually relaxing into a smile. "Hi," he said softly, as though the two of them were alone in the universe.
"I…" Hermione struggled to sit up. Her eyes never left Harry's face. "I thought I'd…"
"Well, yeah," he nodded, "but it's all right now." Gently he caught a stray wisp of her hair and tucked it behind her ear. His smile broadened as a touch of pink colored her cheeks. "Happy Rebirthday, Hermione."
He was expecting what happened next, and so wasn't surprised when she flung her arms around his neck and squeezed him hard enough to cause his vision to blur. As much as he wanted to return the favor, Harry couldn't help but feel that a freshly revivified body was a fragile thing… so he kept his own embrace exquisitely gentle, but no less heartfelt.
It was also an embarrassing reminder that he was still naked as the day he was born. Without breaking out of the hug, Harry raised his voice. "I, erm, I don't suppose anyone has a cloak I could use?"
"Here," came a voice Harry recognized, and a cloak draped itself over his shoulders. Harry looked around to see Ron standing next to him, staring down in incredulity. His shirt had been cut away from his shoulder, where a faint scar was the only remnant of his wound. "She's not dead after all… and you… sweet Merlin, it's not possible…!"
"He came out of the Arch!" The words burst out of Eldritch in a sort of agitated awe. "He came from beyond the Veil! We all witnessed it!"
Croaker's attention was now pinned on Harry. He forced himself to ignore Croaker as he slowly stood to face Ron. He drew the borrowed cloak closed around him. "Yeah, Ron, it's me. Harry."
"No… no, you're dead! I mean, Harry's dead!"
Harry sighed and looked around the room. Everyone was watching and listening, even those who had arrived to take charge of Shacklebolt's body. Harry had taken Death's suggestion seriously, and had spent the time walking back to the Arch coming up with a story he hoped was plausible. "In the sense that I was beyond the Veil, Ron, I was dead."
He pitched his voice slightly louder so that the entire room could hear. "When I left Hogwarts that night to face Voldemort - I hope you got my last message, Ron, where I said I was one of Voldemort's Horcruxes? - anyway, when I faced him, I knew he couldn't be beaten unless I died by his hand. And Voldemort did hit me with the Avada Kedavra - but it didn't simply kill my body." He gestured with one hand from his head to his feet. "I don't know whether it was a reaction between his spell and the Horcrux magic, or our connection through my scar… but he ended up sending me physically, soul and body, into the realm of Death. And that's where I've been ever since… until now."
Harry glanced down at Hermione, trying to rise from the floor, and offered her his hand. "When Hermione died," he said, pulling her to her feet, and squeezing her hand slightly to warn her of what he was doing, "I sensed her soul… and the way it came into Death's realm showed me the way out, as well. And I brought her with me, and now… now we're both back." He gave Ron a lopsided grin - which, though he didn't intend it, dispelled most of Ron's doubts by its authenticity. "Came back late, maybe… but we're back."
"A living human, spending fifteen years in the land of the dead," Croaker said slowly as he likewise stood. "Almost unbelievable… but if he did emerge through the Veil…" Croaker glanced at Eldritch for confirmation; Eldritch nodded once, firmly.
"NO! This is lunacy!" Blaise Zabini had been released from his ropes, and now stood to one side with a Magical Law Enforcer holding either arm. "This is the imposter that Granger found to play Potter, to gain the house-elves' testimony! Everyone in the Ministry knows about it!"
"Why don't you shut up," growled Robards.
"Listen to me, all of you! This is just another of Granger's tricks! How can you be so gullible?!"
"His tale's easy enough to prove," said Hermione briskly. Harry was pleased to see that she'd recovered some strength; at any rate, she seemed her usual businesslike self. And she'd picked up on his story without batting an eyelid. "If this is Harry, then the body that's in Harry's tomb can't be real. I'm guessing, when Voldemort realized he'd sent Harry to the Nether World, he created a replica of Harry's body - he had to show us a body, or we'd never believe he'd defeated Harry." Hermione gave her tight half-smile. "Plus, there are other tests of identity we can use… Gringotts is particularly good at that sort of testing."
"Yeah, okay… but I don't think it's necessary," said Ron. With a slowly growing grin, he reached out a hand to clap Harry's shoulder. "It's you - it's really you! And Merlin, look at you! If you've been on the other side of the Veil all this time, hell, that explains…!" He made vague gestures at Harry's face.
"Right," said Harry, returning Ron's smile, glad that his explanation was being accepted. "That explains the way I look… my age…"
"Tell me about it," Ron interrupted, growing excited. "I mean, you haven't aged a day."
Harry blinked. He looked down at the hand that still held Hermione's. It wasn't the veined and age-spotted hand of the ultra-centenarian he'd been when he'd confronted Death. It wasn't even the calloused hand of the thirty-something sous-chef de cuisine he'd been just a month earlier. It was the hand of the teenager he'd been when Voldemort had killed him… the hand of a seventh-year Hogwarts student.
The voice of a laughing young woman sounded in the back of his mind: "Retirement benefits… and thanks for taking such good care of my Hallows." Which was a nice gesture on Death's part, but Harry would have appreciated a little more warning.
He looked up from their clasped hands to give Hermione a nervous smile. Strangely, she didn't return it. Rather, she delicately disengaged their hands and took a step away. She was looking, not at him, but at the various Ministry Department Heads present in the room, waiting for one to take control of the chaotic situation.
"Right, then," she said after a moment. "Gawain, as the senior Department Head present, I'd be grateful if you could make the arrangements for Kingsley… funeral, his family, you know what needs to be done. Canby? About Fatima…?"
"Elves will make the arrangements, Miss Hermione," said Canby somberly. The other house-elves gathered around Fatima's body nodded in sad agreement.
Hermione nodded her thanks in return. "I'm sorry," she told Canby quietly, then shifted to Croaker. "Harry," she said, keeping her eyes on the Unspeakable, "it might be best if you were to go with Croaker here, so that he can confirm your identity. You'll arrange for a Gringotts goblin, Croaker?"
"I will," said Croaker evenly. "And my department may also have a few questions for Mr. Potter, regarding his experience."
Harry wanted nothing less. As far as he was concerned, it hardly mattered whether the wizarding world acknowledged his return - and he did not want to answer anyone's questions regarding the Afterlife. The gawking wizards and witches around him were causing him to grow anxious again, and he was strongly tempted to simply Apparate away - but he'd started this little drama, and he owed it to Hermione to play it to its end. Though why Hermione was refusing to look at him…
As he allowed Croaker to lead him away, he might have taken some comfort in the fact that Hermione did look at him, watching him leave. She waited until Harry was gone before turning to Montgu, the Auror.
"Montagu," she continued, and there was steel in her manner now, "take Zabini to a holding cell. I want it, and him, stripped of anything that could harm so much as a mouse. I want no one in that cell except Zabini. Outside the cell I want a three-man guard watching him at all times - and I mean at all times, twenty-four hours a day - and with staggered rotation of shifts. I want his food, his drink - hell, I want his air triple-checked for toxins. We are not having a repeat of the debacle with Swivingham!"
"Got it," Montagu replied smartly, and he joined the two Enforcers in escorting Zabini away.
There was a pause, as Hermione surveyed the assembled delegates to the International Conference. Before she could decide on the best way to address them, however, Volshev turned to face his fellows. "The aims of our Conference were good," he said smoothly. "They still are, and I would suggest we ought still to convene to discuss them. With all that has just happened within the British Ministry, however," here he gave a slight half-bow to Hermione, "I cannot help but think that we should reschedule for a later time. Does this meet with everyone's approval?"
From the general nods and murmurs of agreement, it did indeed. "Needless to say," added the French delegate, "we hope you will accept our sincere condolences for the death of Minister Shacklebolt. He was a formidable leader. He will be sorely missed."
"Thank you," said Robards. He glanced at Hermione and lowered his voice. "Madam Granger, it looks like things are under control for now. No one would think less of you if you needed a quiet moment to yourself, after what's happened…"
"I'm fine, Gawain," Hermione began, then wavered… so much had happened, it was true… "Promise you'll call for me if…?"
Ron stepped forward and tugged on Hermione's arm. "They will. They always do. C'mon, love, a few minutes' kip in your office and you'll feel like a new woman."
*
If Death was going to give me a new body, Harry thought irritably, it would've been nice to get new eyes, too.
His little sojourn beyond the Veil had resulted in the disintegration of everything he'd been carrying or wearing, including his glasses - as a result, he was developing a headache from squinting at his surroundings. Right now, he was squinting at Artok, the goblin sent from the Trusts and Wills section of Gringotts Bank. Artok seemed to require a great many drops of Harry's blood for his tests, and Harry was running out of fingertips to prick.
"He is definitely an heir to the Potter family vault," Artok reported at length.
Eldritch and Hopkirk, from the Magical Records Office, looked at one another. "Well, James Potter was the last of the direct male line," said Hopkirk, "and he only had one son, Harry Potter."
Artok smiled toothily, which among goblins was not a warm or friendly expression. "Which is not conclusive. Harry Potter could himself have fathered sons before he died."
Harry snorted. "Riiiight. Simple arithmetic says I would have had to 'father' any kids when I was fifteen, if they're to be my age today. And the professors at Hogwarts really try to discourage fifth-years from shagging - much less procreating. Not that I was emotionally ready to shag anyone that year." Not even Cho, he added silently, nor she with me. Certainly not anyone else. "And besides, if I had got a girl pregnant at the age of fifteen, do you really think she'd have kept it quiet all these years?"
"I've yet to fully comprehend why you humans do any of the things you do," Artok retorted. "All I know from these tests is that you are a scion of the Potter bloodline."
"Well, why don't we see if I can open the Potter heirloom chest, which was specifically charmed by James and Lily Potter so that only their son Harry could open it?" Harry countered. "Or would that be too obvious a solution?"
Artok glared suspiciously at Harry. "How did you know about…?"
"Gee, maybe because I am their son Harry?"
Harry and Artok matched glares for a few moments, before the goblin turned to Hopkirk. "If he can open the Potter heirloom chest, that will be conclusive proof. The difficulty, of course, is that the chest is no longer in the Potter family vault - strictly speaking, there is no Potter family vault any more, its ownership having been transferred under the terms of Harry Potter's will."
Harry couldn't help laughing, though it sounded far from amused. "So I can't get into the vault unless I can open the chest, and I can't get to the chest unless I can get into the vault? I think the Muggles call that a 'Catch-22' for some reason."
"Whatever," said Hopkirk with a shake of her head. "Can we get authorization to take this gentleman into the vault, then? From whomever is the current owner?"
"Well, yes," grudged Artok. "I can send a message to my superiors, who will arrange to contact the current owner. I couldn't tell you how long it will take…"
"Please send your message at once, then," Eldritch told the goblin. "In the meantime, Mr., er, Potter, do you think you might answer some questions we have about the Arch?"
"In the meantime," snapped Harry, "do you think I might get some clothes?" He was still wearing nothing more than the cloak Ron had loaned him.
Eldritch looked mortified. "I'm sorry about that, but Head Croaker was concerned that any disturbance in your ambient environment might affect Mr. Artok's determination."
That does it. That bloody well does it. Harry closed his eyes and prepared to Apparate to Jacob Clayman's flat (he still thought of it that way), both to get a change of clothes and to get away. Away from the probing, prodding, and poking… away from the sodding Ministry…
A moment later, he remained unmoved, still seated in a featureless room within the Department of Mysteries.
He barely suppressed a groan. You're not the Master of the Hallows any more, old son. Wards and barriers affect you like they do everyone else, now. You'll have to make your way to the Ministry's Apparation Point - even assuming the lockdown's been lifted.
Still… I wonder if Eldritch could wrap his mind around the concept that the domain of Death looks exactly like King's Cross station.
*
The lift doors had barely closed when Ron's arms encircled Hermione and held her close. "Oh, Merlin," he breathed, "I thought you were gone forever…"
"I thought I was gone, too," admitted Hermione softly. She said nothing more, and while she didn't push Ron away, she didn't exactly yield to his embrace, either. Ron didn't persist.
He led her to her rooms, past a wide-eyed Sheryl (giving her a look that begged for privacy), and into her private office, closing the door behind them. There was no place in the office to lie down, he noted, but her desk chair was plush, and could be set to lean back… it would have to do. Ron led Hermione straight to the chair and watched as she allowed herself to collapse into it.
In truth, Hermione would have liked nothing better than to curl up in fetal position and make the world retreat for a few hours. She had died - and more to the point, she remembered dying. She vividly remembered the process of dying, and she certainly remembered being dead. She recalled what seemed like floating in ice-cold water, slowly drifting towards a distant ray of light, inviting and warm - only to be plucked from the water and held safely in two hands, kept snug and sheltered as she was taken away from that seductive light back to the living world.
She'd known full well whose hands had carried her home: The same hands that had embraced her upon her return to life, the arms that had enfolded her in love. Ron's embrace in the lift had been a pale, weak substitute.
But at that moment, the real thing would have been too overwhelming.
It was all too overwhelming. Cold shivers began to chase each other down her spine and across her face. She had died…
"Erm," Ron cleared his throat. "Yeah. It's been a hell of a month, hasn't it?"
She felt a flash of irritation at the inane comment… which, to her surprise, helped ground her in reality again, which she found comforting. Hermione wondered, just for a moment, whether Ron had intended that.
"Yes," she agreed wryly, "that it has."
"I'm just… I'm glad you're alive," Ron said simply.
Hermione couldn't help smiling at that. "Thank you, Ron."
Ron made no further attempt at physically comforting her; oh, he knew she'd accept it, but he also knew that it wouldn't really comfort. Besides, in his opinion, Hermione needed to be doing something - useful activity, the best therapy for his supremely competent and efficient wife. She'd always hated admitting weakness. "So," he ventured after a moment, "I suppose there's a lot of messy details to clean up now."
"A great many, and quite messy," she nodded, mentally ticking off her list: getting warrants from the International Confederation of Wizards for ibn al-Afrit and Castigni, securing Zabini, following up with Dennis Creevey, writing her summary to the Wizengamot on the day's events…
"Will you really be opening Harry's tomb later today? To see if there's a body there?"
"Today or tomorrow... I think we have to, Ron. Personally, I have no doubt…"
"Neither do I," he interrupted with a flash of a smile. "I mean, Merlin knows I saw his bare backside plenty of times at Hogwarts: in the dorms, and the Quidditch locker room…"
"And between the goblins and the Unspeakables," Hermione continued doggedly, "his identity should be easy enough to confirm - but an empty tomb will be the final proof."
"Right," he nodded. "'Course, you mentioned doing that last week." The words were out of his mouth before he could stop them; after a second, he realized he didn't want to stop them. Ron wanted to have this out.
Hermione gazed fixedly at him, her eyes trying to penetrate into his thoughts. Calmly he returned her gaze. "After your interview with Teddy Lupin, remember? It's odd, really, when you stop to think about it." Ron paused a moment, watching Hermione, who'd uncharacteristically shut her mouth tighter than a clam.
"Think about it," he repeated. "Teddy tells us Harry's alive. Under Veritaserum, mind you. And you announce you're going to open Harry's tomb and prove it. Then all of a sudden, nothing comes of it. I start wondering if there's an imposter. Zabini's sure you made the whole thing up to psych out the elves. Then…" Ron caught what he was about to say, and continued with scarcely a break. "Then bang, Harry's returned from the dead. With eyewitnesses saying he came from beyond the Veil."
Ron stopped and waited, watching Hermione all the while. The silence grew longer, neither of them willing to be the first to break it.
Finally, Ron took a step towards the door, away from Hermione. His tone was remarkably mild, for Ron. "I think I deserve to know what's going on. I think everyone who was there when you interviewed Teddy deserves to know what the bleedin' hell's going on. Don't you?"
Hermione gave no sign that she agreed. It had happened more than once, throughout their relationship: every so often, Ron would prove that he wasn't at all stupid. Indolent, insular, and inattentive perhaps - but not stupid. Hermione could only wish he hadn't chosen this particular moment to prove it again.
And she couldn't say anything. Ron might have the right of it - at this point, they probably all did deserve to know the full truth - but the truth wasn't hers to divulge. She'd given Harry her promise, and she'd always meant to keep it. And especially now, after he brought her back from the dead (she shivered again), how could she not?
"Well," Ron said at length, "think about it. I was hoping we could celebrate your birthday at some point - and now we should totally celebrate your re-birthday, as Harry put it. My thought was, some sort of lunch party… this Saturday in Hogsmeade, at the Three Broomsticks, so Rose could be there too. And then, I reckon, you could share whatever you feel like sharing?"
He took her continued silence as acquiescence, and with a nod, left the room, closing the door quietly behind him. He headed down the corridor to the lift, determined to see Harry next. There was one recent incident that stuck in Ron's mind, one he hadn't mentioned to Hermione: a nightmare in which Harry had ordered Ron to leave Hermione alone. At least, Ron had assumed it was a nightmare, at the time. Now…
Well, now he needed a few minutes' conversation with Harry. Maybe he could find out from Harry what he couldn't learn from Hermione… and besides, Ron was sure that he could prove it was the real Harry Potter, just by talking with him. After all, there were things known only to the two of them…
Like what happened with that damned locket Horcrux, Ron recalled in a sudden pang of torment.
But when he arrived at the Atrium level, Ron saw that he was far from the only person who wanted to see Harry. The Ministry was crowded with the delegates from the International Conference, with reporters, with gawkers and onlookers - all wanting to see if The Boy Who Lived lived again, and all being held back by a team of Enforcers and Unspeakables, who were finding ever-more-imaginative ways of saying no. Ron might be able to use his status as Harry's friend to get past them, but it wasn't likely, and would probably take way too long.
His talk with Harry would have to wait for another day. Shrugging, he turned and headed for the Apparation Point, intending to return to Weasley's Wizarding Wheezes. He owed George an explanation for his absence, after all… and he felt sure George would find eye-witness details of the day's events would be tremendously interesting.
And Felicia, too. Ron knew she'd prefer to get the details from him than from the Daily Prophet. Besides, Ron had been guiltily avoiding Felicia for the last couple of days, and that was hardly her fault. He needed to find time to take Felicia aside and talk to her privately, make it clear that she'd done nothing wrong, and apologize to her, perhaps over a bite to eat.