Not-Secrets and Bathrooms:And I hold my breath (8)

Of Not-Secrets and Bathrooms

( First Chapter )  | Previous: Voldemort dreams, Harry watches.

Harry sat up, just noticing the uncomfortable position he found himself in. He sat up in his bed in the tower, aware only that it was dark around him, and that his roommates slept.

That was a dream… wasn’t it? Voldemort... I need to find Dumbledore. Harry thought numbly.  

He stumbled out of bed and raced down the stairs, not caring if he woke his friends. The portrait door gave a start as he burst into the corridors, but Harry didn’t care.

What would happen with the Dementors and that stringy looking man? He wasn’t having it for tea (probably. Too evil for that.), so what was he looking for?

The corridors all seemed jumbled in his head, but his feet knew just where to take him. He skidded to a stop in front of the gargoyle, panting as he tried to get the words in his head. He tapped it on the nose vaguely. “Please,” he said, “Dumbledore.”

“Password.” The thing grumbled.

“His office is open! He said his office is open for me-- it’s important that I speak to him.”  Harry’s voice was not as cottony from sleep as he feared.  

He felt the panic curl around him, stifling and hot. Too much to trouble with, so he just kept talking, trying to make it all make sense. “Please.” He said again (the magic words), “Let me in.”

The gargoyle appeared to have pity on him. It said gruffly, “...he’s not actually in right now.”

“Potter!” Strong hands grasped his shoulders, whirling him around. “What are you doing, trying to enter the headmaster’s office at this late hour?”

Harry stared into the face of the potions master. “I have information...I saw...I need to talk to Dumbledore.” Harry tried to explain.

Snape’s lip curled. “If you have pertinent information, tell me.” He crossed his arms.

“I can’t—not right in the hallway. Besides, you hate me,” he chewed his lip.

“I do not see how this is relevant.” Snape sneered. “Tell me, Potter. I shall determine whether or not the Headmaster need be called immediately.”

Harry wavered. Could Snape call Dumbledore back? Or was he saying that simply to make him talk?

Snape loomed over Harry. His height was considerable, and the way he bunched his shoulders, drew back one arm and leaned in, Harry thought of the Dementors again. They’d been plaguing him all summer, and he remembered then what Riddle had said.

It’s Dumbledore’s spell. Could it be? Would Snape know? Harry bit his cheeks (accidentally. he kept opening and closing his mouth as he decided what to say). “What do you want to know for?”

Snape’s bony fingers reached for him then, and Harry, eyes widening, shrank back several paces. His heart beat furiously in his chest, and his breath came like hot, muggy fog stuck in his throat. He felt dizzy, and barely kept himself from saying, “Stupefy!” at the teacher.

Ron ought to be thanked for that. He reminded Harry just that morning that teachers were not to be cast at unless they cast a spell first. Which Snape hadn’t done, and... Harry stopped thinking suddenly aware that Snape was talking again.

“You were not,” Snape concluded, “yourself in class earlier today.”

“I’m always myself. How couldn’t I be? Unless you think I’m possessed... which I’m not,” he added quickly. “I don’t like potions.” Harry muttered in his defense. “Sir.” Then he looked away again.

Snape raised an eyebrow at this-- it might have been the most Harry had said to him all year.

“You will not bother the Headmaster with such useless drivel, Potter. Return to your dormitory at once.” He folded his arms over his chest again, tapping his fingers impatiently. “Don’t linger.”

Harry glared back at the potions master, all thoughts of confiding in him gone. Obviously Snape didn’t listen well, so he would miss all the finer points of the dream, and probably the significance too. He turned around stiffly, and left without giving farewell, completely unaware that Snape hadn’t bothered to assign a detention.

“Twenty points for being out of bed past curfew, and twenty points for disturbing the headmaster, Potter.” Snape called behind him, his voice stern and soft as the hiss of a cauldron.

Harry pretended not to have heard.

“Of course he doesn’t want you to talk to the headmaster. But then, he probably already knows whatever it is you have to tell... He is a spy, you know.” The voice was upbeat and amused-- almost cheerful.

“I’ve begun to notice a pattern with you...” Harry told the empty corridor. “You always, always pop up when I don’t expect it and start talking to me in the hallway.”

Tom laughed at that, and the noise was soft as it was cruel. “Where else do you expect us to talk, Potter? We don’t share any classes, and we’re in different houses.” He strode up next to Harry, his dark eyes searching.

“Why don’t you get in trouble for staying out past curfew?” Harry frowned, his irritation rising. “I just lost 40 points, and no one even seems to see you.”

“I’m much sneakier than you.” Tom sounded overly pleased with himself. “Why were you trying to speak with Dumbledore, anyway?”

“You don’t do small-talk.” Harry informed Tom. “If you ask, I have to assume you’re digging for information. Go away and let me not get caught by anyone else.”

Tom must have been offended by that, because he didn’t say anything for the next several paces. Then he asked, “Why don’t you trust me?”

Harry racked his mind for that answer. It was slippery, rather like an insect, and hard to put into words. “You look like the Diary Ghost, but...different. You sound like him too. You have the same name.” He paused to think some more. “You’re not real. You’re like a fairy tale thing-- something strange and dangerous that wants to...do something horrible. Like Voldemort did. Does.”

Tom nodded slowly, his pale face inexpressive in the lamplight. His answer was like a breath on the wind-- nearly indistinguishable from silence. “Tell me what you saw.”

Harry started at that. “How do you know I saw anything?”

The other boy’s smile was twisted on one end, a sort of half smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “You said as much. ‘I saw.... I need to talk with Dumbledore,’ you said.”

“If Snape knows because he’s a spy, then you know too. Why even bother asking me?” Harry harrumphed.

Tom shook his head as though to clear it. “That’s just it. I have no outside contacts. I’m not a spy, so if I’m to know anything, I have to ask you.”

“Ask Snape.” Harry glowered. “He’s on your side.”

“He isn’t. He mistrusts me. The other Slytherins, too... they all are under the impression that I’m... unwanted among certain circles. That makes them talk,” Tom sighed. But even that simple act seemed calculated. Like the other wanted to present his story in a sympathetic light...just one more move in a game.

Harry rolled his eyes. “That doesn’t mean you aren’t. That doesn’t mean anything.”

They swung around another corner, and Harry saw the familiar portrait of the Fat Lady. He pointedly removed himself from Tom’s reach, and rapped gently on the wall next to her.

Meanwhile, Tom seethed. His stance was almost murderous, except that his expression was still playing at being innocent.

“Are you awake?” he asked the portrait softly.

“You again!” She muttered. “Gave me quite the surprise, you know.” She yawned and then noticed Tom. “What’s that poor boy doing here? Did his classmates lock him out of the common room in the dungeons?”

Poor boy... the word seemed to reverberate inside his head. If it was Dumbledore, why would he set it to have the castle portraits think that?

Harry’s eyes slid back toward Tom. “You need to go now. I can’t say the password with you here.”

“Well, I’ll send word along for someone to come get you. We can’t have you sleeping in the halls, oh no.” She shook her head. “Off with you now, or I can’t let Harry in either.”

So the last Harry saw of him before he headed inside was Tom’s furious eyes.

Once safely inside the common room, Harry enchanted a paper airplane to fetch Hermione, and slowly, quietly crept up the stairs to his own dormitory. It rather reminded him of hungry days in his childhood—when he had carefully crept out of the cupboard to “forage for food” from the pantry or the refrigerator. Usually Dudley was suspected of these nighttime snacking. It certainly helped him sleep; he always slept better knowing he could snack on the ends of the bread (or a handful of anything not easily counted) even if he was denied breakfast. The stairs creaked most unhelpfully, but at last he opened the door.

Harry enchanted two pillows—Ron’s, and his own—to flop against his ginger-haired friend. Ron woke with a muffled cry.  “Harry, what was that for? I’m trying to—”

“Come on Ron,” Harry hissed. “My scar hurts and I saw a vision. Hurry up before one of the others wakes up.”

Ron moaned, but did as he was asked.  

“Harry, if this is about Riddle again—” Hermione chewed her lip.

“It isn’t. I had a vision… and my scar hurts. We should talk someplace else…someplace private.” He eyed the portrait door, wondering if Tom Riddle knew how to enchant sticky bits of flesh-colored rubber to hear, like Fred and George did. If he did, then anything they said here would be compromised...but staying in the dormitories was also out of the question.

He grabbed for a wand and a spare bit of parchment. Maybe he could write it out? Tom Riddle is listening at the door. he wrote in a hastier scrawl than usual.

“This is ridiculous.” Hermione said aloud. “The Fat Lady won’t let him stay there, and he runs the serious risk detentions, or even expulsion, if he gets caught. Tom Riddle would not stay before the door!”

“If he’s even there at all.” Ron muttered, glancing worriedly at his friend. “If you’re going to wander around at night, couldn’t you remember your invisibility cloak? Then at least you wouldn’t have Riddle stalking you back to our door.” Ron tried for a smile, but he really just looked sleepy, and doubtful that Harry had gone anywhere at all.

Harry ignored that. I’m serious. He underlined it three times. He might be using those sticky things Fred and George made to hear through doors.

“If he really is out there,” Hermione said slowly, “he’ll see us when we leave. Which we can’t do.”

“Umbridge isn’t here.” Harry said, and then grimaced, and resumed writing his message. We’ll just go to Myrtle’s bathroom. If you don’t come with me now, he paused to give them a look, I’m going to go stake out Professor Dumbledore’s office until he gets back from wherever he is, even if Snape deducts even more points. So, what’s it to be? Sneaking to the bathroom where Riddle can’t overhear us, or waiting until the headmaster is in plain sight?

Hermione and Ron exchanged glances. “We can’t fit under the cloak, Harry.” Ron pointed out.

Yes you can. Maybe not our feet, but… Hermione, can you do a Disillusionment Charm? You could charm Ron, and we might both fit if we walk hunched over…

It turned out that Hermione didn’t know the charm, and that they were unwilling to try to fit all three of them under the cloak. Harry settled for getting them out the door.

Ron gave Harry a priceless look of exasperation, as if to say No Riddle.

Either out of fear of being discovered by Riddle or the professors, they did agree to stay quiet. Reaching Myrtle’s bathroom, however, wasn’t as much a relief as Harry hoped it would be.

“Ok, Harry. Make this quick—Hermione doesn’t know any silencing spells.”

“Oooo, if it isn’t Harry Potter and his friends,” the girlish voice of Moaning Myrtle sounded behind them. “Come to see me?” She asked coyly.

Harry looked at Myrtle distractedly. “Hi, but not right now. We’ve got just a little time before someone comes by, and we have to talk about this, so, um, flirt later, ok?”

Myrtle gave a girlish shriek of annoyance. “Flirt?!” She demanded. “Who said I was flirting?!” She splashed around noisily. “I’m dead, and I died tragically, and no one can love me.” She wailed, and her usual tears started flowing.

Harry ran his hands through his hair, remembering the odd sensation of feeling another person’s mind during the dream. “I had a vision... Voldemort was asking about a heart, and there was a Death Eater reporting about activities, and a Dementor and somebody came in.” Harry blurted. “I tried to tell Dumbledore, but his gargoyle said he wasn’t in, and then Snape came and told me off. I would tell Sirius, but he’s not here and his mirror is missing and… do you think we could write a letter?”

Ron groaned. “Harry…can that bloody gargoyle even speak? And what happened to your mirror? That was our only safe hope of communication with the outside—”

“Ronald.” Hermione said in a warning tone. “Never mind that. Harry…you said your mirror is gone?” She pursed her lips. “Never mind. Sorry, never mind. Was it like…last year. You talked to Dumbledore after having a dream right before…the third task.”  She paused again, as though wondering if Harry would jump up and run away by mentioning the Tournament.

Harry felt almost irrationally angry at her caution—that she would think him so weak as that? Would he run away just because events leading up to that terrible night was mentioned? A small part of Harry reminded himself that he had, in fact, run away at the mention of the dark ritual, and he often avoided talking about it. However, he wasn’t running now. Irritation and anger boiled in his stomach, making his mind come back into a piece of what it might have been before.

“Dumbledore told me that we have a connection. He said it was a sort of remnant from my scar. It means he takes it seriously!”

Ron examined how Harry was standing, and Harry assumed Ron was looking for some clue that Harry was broken. Again. For the first time at Hogwarts, Ron felt Harry relied on him, and for whatever, reason, Ron took that very seriously. He wondered if Ginny ever felt like this-- that Ron (and Hermione) were ignoring Harry’s own ability to look after himself.

“Why can’t you trust me?” Harry hissed. “I know I need to talk to Dumbledore about this. This is important. I saw-- I saw Voldemort recruiting. Or planning. I don’t know what exactly, but he needs to be told.” Conviction made Harry’s voice sound strong, if rash. In a spur of inspiration, he suggested, “We should write a letter to your parents, Ron. They’re in the Order.”

Ron whirled at that. His expression was wide with surprise, and his words seemed stuck in his throat. He shook his head, finally muttering, “Why?”

Harry’s eyes narrowed. “Yes, well, we need to tell someone.“

“We can’t put that kind of information into a letter.” Ron blurted. “We just can’t.”

“We can tell them to contact Dumbledore!” Harry insisted. “We don’t need to spell anything out. I could write it subtly, and don’t you think they need to know? Voldemort is out in the world.”

“Why don’t we write a letter to Professor Dumbledore, Harry? Just asking him to contact you when he returns.”

“That would be like telling the whole world that he isn’t here, Hermione,” Harry snapped. “We need some other way to contact him... the Order must know what he’s doing... maybe he’s even at Headquarters now...”

“You can’t send letters like that. It’ll put everyone in danger if you try and write anything. Can you imagine my mom or dad putting up with a Dementor attack? With a Death Eater attack?” Ron was shaking his head.

“They chose to be in the Order!” Harry shot back.

“We can write the letter to Professor McGonagall. Or just tell Professor McGonagall, Harry... Maybe Dumbledore will be back for breakfast.” Hermione interjected.

“And what is it you wanted to tell him so badly?” a voice called from the door.

Harry spun to see Tom Riddle standing there. “You eavesdropped.” He accused. Then he turned to where Myrtle was hiding. “You let him in. Really, Myrtle, you ought to recognize and wail when your murderer is loitering on your grave.” He admonished, some of that previous concentration snapping as he focused on an unexpected turn.

“He isn’t!” Myrtle’s voice was partially muffled by the toilet door. “He’s not a pair of yellow eyes, now is he?” She gave a squealing moan. “He didn’t murder me! I would know!” She fumed, her voice dropping an octave. Water started spewing from the faucets and toilets.

“She would know, you realize.” Tom said smoothly. “Now what is it you went all the way to this...quaint bathroom to discuss? Something Snape wasn’t interested in, right, Potter?”

“You already heard.” Harry retorted. “Why are you bothering asking if you heard?”

“But you didn’t tell Snape, now did you. He didn’t want to listen... he wouldn’t want to discuss Death Eater activities at school.” Tom’s voice was low and matter of fact. Everything he said sounded so reasonable.

And yet he still managed to irritate Harry, and make Hermione and Ron suspicious. “Like we’d tell anything to an eavesdropping rat,” Ron retorted. “Why should we tell you? Any old Slytherin could be a You-Know-Who supporter.”

“I could help. Snape isn’t going to share information with you. I could let you know what the Slytherins are doing, and what they’re planning.” Tom said quietly.

“We couldn’t ask you to do that,” Hermione said slowly. “Someone would notice...”

"What does it matter if they notice?" The Slytherin shrugged. "It's not as though their opinions matter."

Hermione scoffed. “I’m sorry, but I think you misunderstand. We can’t afford to trust you.” Her tone was challenging. “Ginny doesn’t trust you. Harry doesn’t trust you.”

Tom froze where he stood. “I’m trying to help you.” He said slowly.

“You’re trying to trick us.” Harry said.

“Harry, you know I’m not him.” He said, showing his palms in a soothing gesture. “I couldn’t be with the Dark Lord or be the Dark Lord if you just saw him elsewhere in a vision!”

“You’re on a secret mission to infiltrate the school.” Harry decided, his mind spinning to make the connections. “You’re...um...I don’t know what you are, but you’re not going to be invited to secret meetings with Dementors if you’ve already got a mission.”

Tom stared at him incredulously. “Secret mission?” He repeated, and gave a small laugh.

“Shut up! Both of you, shut up. You’re too loud.” Hermione shifted uncomfortably, but there was a new look about her. She almost seemed suspicious, or at the very least confused. “Let’s go, Harry. We can’t stay here so long... you can tell us about Riddle and your dream in the common room. This was a bad idea...”

Harry glared at Tom and said, “You want me to trust you? How could I?” Then he walked forward, pushed past the young Dark Lord, and walked on.

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Next chapter: Tom sneaks into Dumbledore's office.