The Dead tell Tales
Chapter One: The Dead tell Tales
'The headstone....was made of white marble....and this made it easy to read, as it seemed to shine in the dark. Harry did not need to kneel or even approach very close to it to make out the words engraved upon it.'
'The last enemy that shall be destroyed is death.'
― Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows
The last thing Kingsley Shacklebolt wanted to do was to walk into that cottage.
When a house-elf arrived to Headquarters in the middle of the night, carrying on about people rising from their graves at Godric's Hollow, the dispatcher had the good sense to floo him personally. The senior auror hadn't taken a midnight call in years, such time slots were usually reserved for under seasoned officers, but he had been thankful for her quick thinking. This was something he wanted to see to personally, even before he talked to Barnes.
There had been whispers of late, whispers that had divided the department. Whispers that the dark lord was back. Whispers that all started when Harry Potter began attending Hogwarts.
The ministry was denying everything of course, but Shacklebolt had his doubts. Old "imperiused" Death Eater families were stirring, and crime rates had been fluctuating rather oddly in the past year, along with an increase of traffic in Knockturn Alley. Nobody wanted to believe it. Nobody wanted to imagine it. Everyone wanted to believe that Dumbledore was growing senile and paranoid after living through two dark wizards in his lifetime. But the signs were there.
A rookie auror would have thought this was a mere vandalism case. But Shacklebolt knew exactly who was buried in that graveyard, and suspected that there was much, much more to the story.
But Merlin, why did he have to be right?
"Tonks, you've gone over securing crime scenes in class before, yeah?" He turned to the violet-haired teen. Not even finished with academy, the young woman had been allowed to work as an apprentice of sorts until she finished her credentials. He hadn't worked with her before, truth be told, but she seemed competent, if a bit green. Or ... purple, he supposed.
"Aye, sir." She nodded, seeming both disappointed and relieved all at once. Mr. Barnes looked at both of them expectantly, an eyebrow raised. The gruff man didn't look the least bit perturbed by the situation, as if claiming to have undead heroes in his house for tea was an everyday occurrence.
"Head back there, then. Nothing is to be moved, by the dead or the living. Understood? And Tonks?"
"Yes, sir?"
"Don't-trip over anything, alright? Just keep the ghosts and poltergeists away from the body until I get there."
The young woman nodded sheepishly, watching her step as she plodded down the trail. It would be a miracle if she didn't damage anything, but he needed someone at that crime scene and he wanted to-no, he needed to-lay eyes on what Mr. Barnes was claiming to be true.
"Well….do ye want to come on in, then? They don't bite. Quite reasonable, for inferni, I rather think." Barnes joked, a few teeth missing from his smile. Shacklebolt's own polite smile froze.
"You see a lot of inferni around these parts?" He asked seriously, beginning to follow the older man down the windy trail.
"No, but I'll be Merlin's uncle if that's not wha' I thought they were, when I first laid eyes on 'em." Barnes shook his head in amusement. "The ghosts kept rattlin' on abou' a dead man and a ring. And what do I come upon, but a very alive Mr. Potter. Didn't make sense, at first. Not quite certain it makes sense now."
"A ring?" Shacklebolt murmured.
"Yeah, funny, tho', never did see one on that turbin fella. Didn't see one on the Potters, either. They didn't even know who he was!"
Turban fellow?
It took everything within Shacklebolt for him to maintain his composure. Barnes seemed somewhat oblivious, but there was one well known, turban-wearing professor that Shacklebolt had personally led a manhunt for.
"What did he look like?" He asked, keeping his voice even.
"Hard to tell, be quite honest. Back of his head was all mangled and such, and I knew enough to not move 'im. Looked painful, whatever 'appened to him. Can't tell what did 'im in, but the ghosts seemed certain that some magic ring had something to do with it. Even said the ring felt warm." Barnes murmured, finally appearing a bit unsettled. He dug for his keys in his coat.
"Not sure if you're aware, detective, but ghosts don't feel warmth. They don't feel anything. And there's more. I….I didn't tell the Potters what it meant, but-" Barnes sucked in a breath as they approached the iron door. He glanced towards the home, lowering his voice as he glanced back at Shacklebolt." The ghosts were saying that the turban fellow wasn't alone. That a boy with a lightning bolt scar was with 'im."
For a moment, Shacklebolt felt nearly a ghost himself, all of the air having been sucked out of him.
"What did you say?" He repeated, his voice more of a growl than a whisper.
"Just wha' you heard me say. Now, I keep to myself, here. Don't get involved much with the papers, and all of tha'. But even I've heard bou' what happened to wee little Harry. And him appearing, a wizard dying, and his parents coming back from the dead? Sounds like blood magic to me."
"They're certain they saw him?" Shacklebolt demanded again, his eyes searching Barnes'. The man gave him an eerie feeling, but he didn't appear to be lying. Barnes met his gaze confidently.
"They are. None of 'em saw where he went to, but they swear they saw 'im with the turban fellow when he used his ring. And James Potter climbing out of the groun' soon after tha'."
Damn it.
Ghosts were notoriously unreliable witnesses, mixing up the events of their life and afterlife, but even when they were competent, they couldn't stand as witnesses in court. Older laws and such nonsense, too many cases of ghosts falsely blaming their deaths on their enemies in the days of yore.
But it couldn't be a coincidence. And if Quirrell was dead, where was Harry Potter?
The key rattled in the old knob, and the iron door swung open, revealing two startled, muddied people in its wake, both clenching tea mugs in surprise as they sat at a kitchen table. The male had the worst of it, it seemed, drenched from head to toe in topsoil. Without his glasses and trademark black hair, James Potter was almost unrecognizable. But the facial tics and body language were the same. And the woman beside him was undeniably Lily Potter.
"By Merlin. You haven't aged a day." Shacklebolt breathed, staring at the more recognizable of the two. And she hadn't. No one could claim that she had secretly been in hiding all these years. He had only met her a handful of times, but she was exactly how he remembered her. Exactly how the newspapers had shown her.
"Do…"She began, her voice hoarse. "Do I know you?"
"No…" he began, thankful for his ability to keep calm even as he grasped for the right words. James interrupted, his eyes growing wide.
"But I do." James muttered, his muddied eyebrows practically rising to his hairline. "That….that can't be right. Your uniform's all wrong. Shacklebolt's just a rookie. This is some sort of trick-" James started to stand, but wavered as he did so.
Shacklebolt raised his hands in the air, trying to ease the startled auror back down.
"You've been in that ground for a long time, James. I'm not a rookie anymore. Just sit down, and we'll talk about it, yeah?"
James reluctantly agreed, more out of physical necessity than choice. His wife squeezed his hand reassuringly, but the muddied wizard kept eyeing Shacklebolt distrustfully, and Kingsley couldn't say that he wasn't doing the same. People didn't just come back from the dead. It was as unheard of as surviving the killing curse. But it appeared the Potter family had a knack for both.
"You're...older." James started, gears beginning to turn. Shacklebolt nodded.
"How long do you think you've been buried in those graves?"
The couple looked at each other, both confused.
"I don't know." Mrs. Potter began, turning back to Kingsley. "It feels like yesterday, but….it also feels like I've woken from a very long dream."
"Or nightmare." James added morosely, eyeing the detective. Kingsley nodded sympathetically, taking a deep breath.
"I-I don't know if I'm the right person to tell you this. And St. Mungos will need to confirm that you are who you say you are, but….you two have been buried for over a decade. Nearly twelve years, in fact."
James Potter dropped his teacup, shattering it as it made contact with the wooden floor. The two Potters stared at him incredulously, as if expecting Shacklebolt to come out and tell them it was all a joke. But he met their gaze evenly.
"Merlin's beard." James Potter ran his hand through his muddied hair, the same way Shacklebolt had seen him do years prior. James blinked, looking at the scuff mark the broken porcelain had made on the hardwood floor.
"Er...I'm sorry, mister….I've already forgotten your name." He murmured in embarrassment. Barnes, still standing in the doorway, waved it off. With a poof, the previously hysterical house-elf appeared, unashamedly going underneath the visiting wizard's legs to reach the broken cup. "Barnaby Barnes, and not ter worry. That's what she's 'ere for."
"Thank you." Lily murmured to the house-elf, before looking back up at Kingsley. Her gaze changed in an instant, from soft appreciation to sharp demand. "If it's been over twelve years…..is Harry…?" Her throat caught as she spoke, but she didn't have to finish her question. Kingsley blinked, scrambling for an answer.
"He's…" he began, his mind flickering back to Barnaby's earlier words, "...alive. In fact, he was sorted into Gryffindor. Foolishly brave, some would say. Seems the apple doesn't fall far from the tree."
The relief was tangible, the emotional weight visibly lifting from the witch's shoulders as she leaned back, her face in her hands. She dared to peak back up at him, tears streaming down her face. Her husband wasn't faring much better.
"I….he….how….?"
"I was hoping you could tell me. It's been a mystery to the wizarding world for the past decade. They even call him 'The Boy Who Lived'."
James Potter stared dumbly, still struggling to take it all in. "The boy who…? How did he escape? He's just a baby. If Voldemort….if he killed you…." He hiccupped, still visibly shaking.
But Lily Potter didn't seem surprised at all. Stunned, but not nearly as confused as her husband.
"I can't believe it...it worked. It really worked." She murmured, looking a bit in a daze. James turned to her, a strange expression flickering in his eyes.
"You can't believe what worked?"
"I…." She paused, her gaze switching between the three men in the room, as if she were not quite sure who to focus on. "When we were warding the house. I looked into some old magic. Very old magic. A blood ward."
"Lily...we talked about it, blood wards are dark-"
"Only because they involve sacrifices! But this one was different, it was-it didn't involve killing anyone else. It's based on a mother's sacrifice. It was only meant to be a preventative measure, if something ever happened to me."
"Lily…." James pleaded, his throat catching. "What did you do?"
"It wouldn't-it wouldn't explain any of this. It was just-if I died, it would protect Harry. That's all. My death would protect Harry. The grimoire never specified exactly how strong it was. What…..does anyone know what happened, exactly? How he survived?"
"No." Shacklebolt murmured, his mind whirring. "No, only that-after you two-there was an explosion. Harry was found alive, and You-Know-Who…."
"Wha' the auror is tryin' to say, is that your little 'Arry is credited with saving the whole wizarding world." Barnes interjected, shaking his head in disbelief. "Never found You-Know-Who's body of course, now that's a funeral I'm glad I didn't have to carry out, but he disappeared. Hasn't been seen since the day you two died. Your boy ended the whole bloody war."
You could hear a pin drop. In fact, the only sound in the entire cottage was Beasy popping out of the room with the broken cup.
"He….what?"
"Best we can tell, the killing curse You-Know-Who cast on Harry bounced back and hit the dark lord. And now, the world might finally know why." Shacklebolt murmured, scratching his chin. Suddenly, it hit him.
"Except they shouldn't. Barnes, not a word of this leaves this cottage, is that understood?"
"Why woul' I-"
"Not a word. I'll make you swear an unbreakable oath if I have to."
"That's not necessary. Not a peep from this graveyard, on my honor. It's no' like the dead talk, besides. And the ones that do, nobody believes 'em."
"Good. Because if word gets out, and I find it's through you, or any of your ghosts-than you will as good have murdered Harry yourself, understood?"
"Murdered?!" Both Potters exclaimed, James attempting to rise to his feet.
"Pardon my dramatic language, of course. But-your son has many enemies. Many of You-Know-Who's old followers, for one. I don't know anything about this blood ward of yours, but if anyone figures out what it is, then they're one step closer to using it against him."
"Assuming it still works." James muttered quietly. "I mean, we're here now, aren't we? Would us coming back to life null the ward?"
"I….I don't know. I mean, it's not like this has ever happened before." Lily remarked, pursing her lips. "And to be honest, I don't think that spell has been used in centuries." She stopped, turning back the Shacklebolt. "I….when can we see him? Harry, I mean."
Shacklebolt felt his heart freeze in his chest.
"Not yet, I'm afraid." He nearly stuttered, searching for an excuse. "I need to have a medic come and examine you, and I'd like to keep what you're wearing as evidence before you two get washed up."
"You're not taking us to St. Mungos? James asked, scrunching his nose. "We can still walk-"
"It's not your capability I'm worried about, Mr. Potter, so much as your privacy. If we go to St. Mungos now, you'll be in the morning paper, for sure. If we have one of their medics come here, we might be able to keep this contained for a while longer. Don't feel like you're dying, do you?" He joked, a twinkle in his eyes.
James laughed bitterly. "Been there, done that, I'm afraid." Shacklebolt stood to leave, but not even a second later, Barnes toppled over in the doorway, having been trampled over by a very junior apprentice.
If Shacklebolt could have torn out his hair, he would have.
"You won't believe this, sir-" Tonks blabbed, eyes as wide as the house-elf's had been an hour earlier.
"Tonks-"
"It's Quirrell, sir! Quirrell's the dead bloke! I looked to see if I could find Harry-"
"Tonks-"
"Couldn't find sight of 'im. But I did see footprints, a child's, in the mud-"
"Tonks-"
"It has to be him, he's been here, sir-"
"TONKS." He bellowed, slamming his fist down on the coffee table. Mrs. Potter's own teacup bounced off, shattering next to where her husband's had been only a few minutes prior. Kingsley closed his eyes, doing everything he could to maintain his composure. He looked at the green trainee, her eyes startled and her mouth agawk. Then he looked at the Potters.
He would never forget the look on their faces.
"Tonks," he began, his voice dangerously calm. "I need you to round up more aurors. Williamson and Carpenter, they can be trusted. Don't give them details, tell them it's by my request. You said you had a friend that just started work at St. Mungos? If she can be trusted, grab her, too. Don't tell anyone anything, and do not let them come here without you. Is that understood?"
"Yes sir." She said quietly, unable to look away from the two staring Potters.
"And Tonks?"
"Yes sir?"
"Next time I tell you to secure a crime scene-don't leave it."
"I-yes sir. Sorry, sir." She swallowed, nodding apologetically to the others in the room. She backed off, leaving Shacklebolt feeling like he had kicked a dog. When he turned to the Potters, the looks on their faces made him feel like he had kicked puppies, instead.
"He was here. And you knew." James said dangerously. Shacklebolt nodded wearily, sighing. Even Barnes seemed unnerved, looking away in embarrassment.
"...what aren't you telling us about Harry?" Dark, emerald eyes inquired after his. Angry eyes. A mother's eyes.
"I'm afraid... that Harry was kidnapped over a year ago, at the end of his first year at Hogwarts. And the man that kidnapped him…" Shacklebolt paused, letting his own gaze fall into the distant fog. "Is the man you found dead in the graveyard."