Emma Potter; Going to War

98: The Photo

HARRY:

Harry woke early next morning, wrapped in a sleeping bag on the drawing room floor. A chink of sky was visible between the heavy curtains: It was the cool, clear blue of watered ink, somewhere between night and dawn, and everything was quiet except for Ron and Hermione's slow, deep breathing. 

Harry glanced over at the dark shapes they made on the floor beside him. Ron had had a fit of gallantry and insisted that Hermione sleep on the cushions from the sofa, so that her silhouette was raised above his. Her arm curved to the floor, her fingers inches from Ron's. Harry wondered whether they had fallen asleep holding hands. The idea made him feel strangely lonely.For the seventh time he wished he had managed to bring his sister with him. 

 He looked up at the shadowy ceiling, the cobwebbed chandelier. Less than twenty-four hours ago, he had been standing in the sunlight at the entrance to the marquee, waiting to show in wedding guests. . .Emma had been teasing him about Ginny.  . . It seemed a lifetime away. 

What was going to happen now?

 He lay on the floor and he thought of the Horcruxes, of the daunting, complex mission Dumbledore had left him and his sister. . . . Dumbledore . . . 

 The grief that had possessed him since Dumbledore's death felt different now. The accusations he had heard from Muriel at the wedding seemed to have nested in his brain like diseased things, infecting his memories of the wizard he had idolized. Could Dumbledore have let such things happen? Had he been like Dudley, content to watch neglect and abuse as long as it did not affect him? Could he have turned his back on a sister who was being imprisoned and hidden? 

 Harry thought of Godric's Hollow, of graves Dumbledore had never mentioned there; he thought of mysterious objects left without explanation in Dumbledore's will, and resentment swelled in the darkness.

 Why hadn't Dumbledore told them? Why hadn't he explained? Had Dumbledore actually cared about Harry or Emma at all? Or had they been nothing more than tools to be polished and honed, but not trusted, never confided in? 

 Harry could not stand lying there with nothing but bitter thoughts for company. Desperate for something to do, for distraction, he slipped out of his sleeping bag, picked up his wand, and crept out of the room. On the landing he whispered, "Lumos," and started to climb the stairs by wandlight.

 On the second landing was the bedroom in which he and Ron had slept last time they had been here; he glanced into it. The wardrobe doors stood open and the bedclothes had been ripped back. Harry remembered the overturned troll leg downstairs. Somebody had searched the house since the Order had left. Snape? Or perhaps Mundungus, who had pilfered plenty from this house both before and after Sirius died? 

Harry's gaze wandered to the portrait that sometimes contained Phineas Nigellus Black, Sirius's great-great-grandfather, but it was empty, showing nothing but a stretch of muddy backdrop. Phineas Nigellus was evidently spending the night in the headmaster's study at Hogwarts. 

Suddenly there was flash of light. Harry immediately jerked into a defensive stance. Wand raised, weight shifted to his right foot. But then a huge silver animal came bounding into view. It was a patronous. 

Emma's, to be precise. 

Harry lowered his wand, and watch as the silver wolf came to stop ahead of him. The mouth opened and his sister's voice spoke. 

Harry. Everyone's fine, well, the Death Eaters aren't. Remus and I took care of them. Tell Ron his family is safe. 

Harry could hear the grim satisfaction in his sister's voice.