The rest of the journey to the gargoyle's alcove passed in silence, and in haste. The spiders reported commotion near the common rooms, but the other Heads of House were already there. Two Aurors had unceremoniously herded the disgruntled Gryffindors back inside their common room and stayed at the entrance with expressions to match. Others on duty had scattered toward whatever posts they considered strategically important — my spiders weren't there, so I had no precise picture. I hadn't placed them everywhere; I'd deployed them at likely gathering points for students, not at tactically significant positions around the castle.
The gargoyle was not in its alcove. Only the spiral staircase, and on it — Dumbledore, leaning against the stone of the niche. He looked as though he'd walked out of a fire. Soot marks. His robes damaged on the left side. Blood and grazes along the left side of his face. He was holding his left arm and trying to cast sothing for it — it hung limp. Even from this distance I could see the unfocused look of a man who had sustained a serious concussion. And I was quite certain there had been one.
"Headmaster." McGonagall went to him imdiately, and Hermione and I followed.
Hermione and the professor began helping the Headmaster while I took up a protective position, scanning the corridors and watching for any movent that might indicate a threat. In such monts I find myself wishing for sothing other than a wand — sothing like a rapid-fire rifle from the assault infantry of the Ard Space Forces… Damned inadequate shard of a pilot, with his ill-tid ideas about proper armant and the correct tactics for ground operations.
"What happened?" the professor asked, applying a series of basic first-aid charms — nothing that required specialist knowledge, and not much more effective than the equivalent mundane asures, but sothing.
"An explosion, Minerva," Dumbledore answered, his voice rough. "Ordinary Muggle explosive, I believe. With a magical detonator. Most likely remotely triggered."
"But who could have done such a thing?"
McGonagall steadied the Headmaster by the shoulder — he declined fuller assistance with a gesture — and the four of us moved toward the hospital wing at a pace constrained by Dumbledore's injury.
"It's obvious enough. Tom has begun acting too aggressively, too decisively," Dumbledore replied, in a thoughtful tone, without a trace of pain in his voice — though clearly with so effort. "Crouch has pressed him too hard, I imagine. This is not good… I did not want that pressure on him — it only ever makes Tom act with force and decisiveness, and worst of all, it makes him think."
"Tom?" Hermione asked. "Do you an… Voldemort?"
"Yes, Miss Granger… Hm… Though why, incidentally, are you and your brother not in your common rooms?"
"It has been a long evening, Headmaster," I answered for my sister. "And it isn't over yet."
"A fair observation…"
One of the Aurors ca running toward us from ahead, and wands were imdiately trained on him. He showed no aggression, his own wand pointed at the floor. That didn't stop one from suspecting him of practically anything.
"Headmaster Dumbledore." The Auror's expression was anxious as he approached. "What's happened? Are you all right?"
"Nothing irreparable," Dumbledore made no attempt to smile or produce anything of the sort. He understood, I think, how entirely inappropriate it would have been. "I am barely hard, unlike my office."
"Where are you going? Shall I escort you? To the hospital wing?"
"There is no need — we can manage. You should return to your duties. Hogwarts may be under threat, however unlikely. The wards are active, and it would be very difficult for anyone to breach them."
"Nevertheless—" the Auror's phrasing clearly implied a continuation that never ca, and the wizard hurried off in so undisclosed direction.
"Headmaster…" Hermione began uncertainly, walking beside him, ready to assist at any mont. "You have a phoenix. Fawkes, isn't it. Did he help you during the explosion?"
"Your curiosity is truly boundless, Miss Granger," and here Dumbledore permitted himself the smallest smile. "Unfortunately, Fawkes shielded from Voldemort's Killing Curse at the Ministry."
"He died?" Hermione was horrified for a mont, then quickly grasped sothing important.
"No, of course not. The phoenix is a unique magical creature. It cannot be killed even by an Unforgivable — it will always be reborn."
We reached the hospital wing without incident and relatively quickly. More than once along the way the thought occurred to to offer Dumbledore so assistance — there were things I could do — but one look at the Headmaster made it clear he would decline, and would rather reach Madam Pomfrey quickly than stand still while soone else cast over him.
The school matron t us practically on the threshold. She did not exclaim, did not express shock, did not display any of the reactions she'd been known to indulge when students arrived with injuries. We got the Headmaster to an empty bed and handed the matter over to the specialist. While Madam Pomfrey worked on the obediently still Headmaster, I swept the hospital wing with a glance. Four beds were occupied, their curtains drawn, shielding the patients from view. My sensitivity to the surrounding environnt couldn't tell the state of the occupants, but sothing suggested that Potter, Longbottom, and the two Weasleys were sleeping not entirely without the assistance of potions.
"Headmaster," McGonagall had tired of simply standing and waiting for the results of the diagnosis and whatever else Madam Pomfrey was undertaking. I, on the other hand, was watching, analysing, committing details to mory. "What do we do now? Should the school's wards be lifted?"
"Certainly not, Minerva," Dumbledore answered, serious, staring into the middle distance. "Tom has clearly set his sights on , which ans we should expect anything."
"On you?" Hermione was surprised. "But it was Harry he was luring into a trap—"
"Over a long life, Tom has developed characteristic patterns — his own thods. As, indeed, have all of us… Mm—" Dumbledore winced slightly as Madam Pomfrey used magic to cut away what remained of the left sleeve of his robes, which was now beyond salvaging.
"Hold still," the matron said drily, and began treating the lacerated wounds with a potion. "If you will fight Dark Lords, you will dress wounds."
"Very kind of you, Poppy," the Headmaster said with a slight smile, receiving in return a particularly firm press of a cotton swab into the wound for his trouble. "Hm."
"Er—" Hermione watched this with concern. "I'm no Healer, but is that quite normal?"
"Your Headmaster will be perfectly fine," Madam Pomfrey replied without looking up. "Perhaps next ti he'll think twice before walking into a conflagration without preparation."
"Did I have a choice?"
"You are forever trying to save drowning n without their knowledge or consent."
"So what leads you to believe," McGonagall decided to bring the conversation back on track, "that You-Know-Who was luring you specifically? I need to understand it in order to organise appropriate defences, to take the right asures—"
"His signature, Minerva. If he had wanted Harry dead at any cost, the boy would already be dead. Let us be candid — that is not so very difficult to arrange, however hard we try to protect him."
"What is all this business with Potter about, then?" I asked quietly — as quietly as everyone else, to avoid waking the unwitting architects of the evening's events.
"That is a secret," Dumbledore said, and there was genuine guilt sowhere behind his words. "And it is not in my power to transfer the burden of keeping it to your shoulders."
"Fair enough," I said. "Then what's stopping soone from simply eliminating the Dark Lord?"
"Mr Granger!" McGonagall murmured, scandalised.
"Hector!" Hermione murmured with equal, if quieter, indignation, and for a mont looked remarkably like her Head of House.
"No, but honestly," I said, no louder than the rest. "There's no need for magical duels and pitched battles and sacrifices. Take a high-calibre sniper rifle — Muggle-made — inscribe a runic sequence on it for indestructibility and whatever else is needed for reliable dispatch, and done. Find a wizard, put him through a couple of solid weeks of firearms training, hand over the rifle, and wish him well on his way. The Aurors and the MLE track down the Dark Lord and his associates, give the signal, our specialist arrives, fires once, the enchanted round passes through every protective layer — that can be calculated — and the Dark Lord's head cos apart like an overripe lon. Or — lure him to Potter. He clearly has so particular fixation there."
"Mr Granger," McGonagall continued to object, quietly but firmly. "It is entirely unbecoming of a well-raised young wizard to speak in such terms. Potter is a living boy, your classmate, not a piece of—"
"I agree," said Dumbledore.
McGonagall and Hermione both lifted their chins slightly, receiving the Headmaster's support for what they had apparently assud to be their shared position.
"With Mr Granger," Dumbledore added, and the moralists' mont of self-satisfaction collapsed.
"But how—"
"The problem is not the thod, nor even the possibility of using Harry to draw Tom out. The difficulty is that Tom has genuinely found a way to protect himself from death. Since 1981 he has been seeking a way to return, and recently — as we can all observe — he found one. Moreover, just recently I received an anonymous letter describing the thod Tom used, and how many tis he has employed it."
"And what is it, if it isn't a secret?" I found myself genuinely curious, and even had the impression that the patients asleep behind their curtains had sohow gone still — or were not entirely asleep.
"Again, I must stay silent until I have verified everything. But this anonymous correspondent was persuasive. I believe it to be an old acquaintance of mine, whose conscience has at last overco his fear for his own life."
"So," I said, drawing the logical conclusion. "If he's killed, he'll simply co back?"
"Precisely," Dumbledore nodded.
Madam Pomfrey returned with fresh potions and began treating the wounds on the Headmaster's face, depriving him of the ability to nod further.
"As you can see," the Headmaster continued, "killing him doesn't resolve anything—"
"I'd argue it does," I ventured to disagree. "How long did it take the Dark Lord to find his way back last ti? Thirteen years? Fourteen? Twelve? When exactly did he return?"
"Around that, yes," Dumbledore confird. "But he didn't begin acting in earnest until ten years in. Now, however, with a known thod and willing helpers unafraid to assist — it will take less ti."
"So let him try again. Find out exactly how he ca back, and with whose help, put them under surveillance. If he returns — another bullet, and repeat the cycle. In the anti, since Potter apparently matters so very much for reasons I'm not permitted to know, perhaps you could apply that ti to actually training him. If he's as important as all this, then make sothing of him — a genuinely strong wizard, not another one of the diocre many pushing papers around the Ministry."
"Mr Granger," McGonagall said, with a slight frown. "I would ask you to show rather more respect when speaking to the Headmaster—"
"Never mind, Minerva. Mr Granger is, in a certain sense, correct. But it seems to more prudent to first strip Tom of his immortality—"
"And how long will that take? A year? Two? Ten? I ca here to learn — not to watch this idiotic stand-off through arrow slits, not to read about the dead over breakfast, and certainly not to chase after my peers trying to stop them from getting themselves killed by attacking a group of grown dark wizards led by one of the most powerful Dark Wizards alive."
"Hector, don't."
"Don't what? How many lives are you prepared to put on the altar to preserve your plan while setting aside actually effective alternatives?"
"I believe we have understood the essence of your proposal, Mr Granger," the Headmaster nodded—
"I agree!" ca a voice from behind one of the curtains, which was imdiately yanked open to reveal a battered Potter in a battered school uniform.
The boy climbed down from the bed, adjusted his glasses, and made his way toward us with a sowhat unsteady gait. His left arm was bandaged and held in a sling.
"What exactly do you agree with, Mr Potter?" McGonagall asked, surprised.
"Back to bed this instant," Madam Pomfrey gave the boy a severe look, though she showed no inclination to stop treating the Headmaster's wounds.
"I agree with Hector." Potter ca and stood next to . "Even if Voldemort is immortal right now, he can still be killed. It doesn't even really count as killing, if you think about it. It would buy ti — for all of us. Ti to prepare. For whatever cos. And if it's needed, I'm willing to be the bait."
"Are you out of your mind?!" Another curtain was flung open, revealing Ron's face, head wrapped in bandages.
"What a ridiculous theatre," I shook my head.
One of the spiders sent a sharp alert, and I tuned in imdiately.
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