Chapter Ten
“Founding Feud”
HARRY
Ron and Hermione had made up after their squabble over Krum and were now feeding each other forkfuls of scrambled eggs and honeyed pancakes - something which made both Harry and Ginny nauseous. After breakfast with Ginny, Harry set off for the library. Madam Pince squawked at him for being out of class, but before Harry could receive the full brunt of her wrath, a hapless Jimmy Peakes walked in with a dog-eared, mud-splattered library book and Madam Pince swooped down on him instead, hissing and screeching fitfully. Pleased to be off the hook, Harry ducked out of sight behind a particularly tall and imposing bookshelf.
Harry spent the next hour strolling leisurely up and down the aisles, running his finger across the spines of the books. Hermione herself had combed the library unsuccessfully in search of information about Horcruxes, so it was with blind hope that Harry kept searching.
I’ll know, Harry thought, flipping open an ancient book on impulse and thumbing through the Index. Hengist of Woodcroft; Herpo the Fool; Hippogriffs – injuries by; Horton, Basil. No Horcruxes. Harry’s eyes drifted down the page and came to rest on the entry Hufflepuff, Helga, p. 1391. What if the book held some clue to the location of the Hufflepuff goblet? Harry was doubtful, but desperate for any leads. He flipped eagerly to page 1391, but found her name mentioned in a single sentence – “After the notorious feud between the Hogwarts founders in 958 AD, Helga Hufflepuff returned to her childhood home in Cardiff-by-the-Sea.” His interest piqued, Harry scanned the book for further mentions of the Founders’ infighting, but the paragraphs for Godric Gryffindor, Salazar Slytherin, and Rowena Ravenclaw left much to be desired.
The next book was similarly tight-lipped on the subject of the Hogwarts feud. Frustrated, Harry slammed the book shut and shoved it roughly back into place; Madam Pince’s nostrils flared angrily and Harry high-tailed it out of the library as she sent a bottle of ink hurtling in his direction.
* * * * *
“Hermione!” Harry skidded into the Common room, panting heavily.
Hermione untangled herself from Ron’s long arms and hurried to his side. Behind her, Ron got slowly to his feet with a sour look on his face.
“Hermione – I need Hogwarts, A History!”
“Oh?” she asked coolly, though a small smile belied her true emotions. “I thought you and Ron would never have need of that book…if I remember right, you said something along the lines of ‘we can just ask you.’” But Harry looked so panicky that Hermione relented and bustled off to retrieve the book.
“Thanks a lot, mate,” Ron said dryly. “I’d just gotten her to put down her Ancient Runes book and you come bursting in.”
Harry shrugged his shoulders and repositioned his glasses on his sweaty nose. Ron plopped down in an armchair and pulled a deck of Exploding Snap cards out of his pocket. Hermione reappeared, staggering under the weight of the enormous tome. She let the book fall to the table with a resounding thud.
“What exactly are you looking for, Harry?” Hermione asked, perching on the edge of the table as he tore feverishly through the pages.
“Aha!”
Ron leaned over, looking distinctly disinterested. “Helga Hufflepuff? Godric Gryffindor? Who cares about those old fogies anyway?”
“Ron!” Hermione snapped, lovingly caressing the pages of Hogwarts, A History.
Harry scanned the page, hoping for some side-note about Helga Hufflepuff’s favorite goblet or some mention of anything belonging to Rowena Ravenclaw. After the Hogwarts founders’ feud, Helga Hufflepuff returned to her home in Wales. She died there in 966 and was buried in an unmarked grave.
“Nothing!” said Harry furiously.
“Nothing?” Hermione looked aghast.
“1000 pages of nothing,” Ron mumbled, almost inaudibly. Had Hermione overheard him, Harry was sure that their reconciliatory period would be short lived.
“I thought…I hoped…” Harry’s tone turned indignant, “Shouldn’t Hogwarts, A History have something to say about its founders’ famous possessions?!”
“Oh, the Horcruxes – of course,” Ron pocketed the deck of cards and they promptly exploded, incinerating the right-hand side of Ron’s robes.
“Hogwarts, A History certainly wouldn’t muddle in that,” Hermione said knowingly, “but Professor Binns doesn’t stray away from the mundane.”
“You’re telling us,” Ron said wryly.
“Yeah, if only we’d listened to that old windbag.”
Hermione chewed the inside of her lip, fighting back a smile. “It wouldn’t have killed you, you know.”
Harry sighed and paged idly through the book. Hogwarts, A History made numerous allusions to the infamous Hogwarts feud, but the passages were so lengthy and the writing so miniscule that Harry thought he’d be better off asking Hermione.
“What do you know about the Hogwarts feud?”
Hermione’s smile faded. “Well, Hogwarts, A History mentions it, obviously, but it’s never been satisfactorily chronicled in any of the books I’ve read. It must have been dreadful…no one seems to want to write about it.” Hermione quickly referred him to fifty pages on which he might find some morsel of information and then hurried off to Ancient Runes.
* * * * *
It was midnight and once again, Harry was the only Gryffindor student still awake to greet the new day. He was sitting in the window squinting down at the age-spotted pages of Hogwarts, A History. Ron, Hermione, and Ginny had retired to bed over an hour ago, but Harry refused to rest. The next page, he told himself over and over, the next page will have something.
Finally, at his wits’ end, Harry heaved the book across the room. It plowed headlong into the wall and slid to the floor, where it lay open like a fallen bird.
Harry could imagine the look on Hermione’s face if he knew how he had mistreated Hogwarts, A History, and tramped grudgingly across the room to retrieve it.
As he bent over the bruised book, he saw something lying upon the open pages, like a brilliant red bookmark. Upon closer inspection, Harry realized it was a phoenix feather, tied to a crumpled note. Harry recognized the lilting handwriting immediately –
Chapter Ten
Founding Feud
Part Two
Harry could scarcely believe his eyes; without a moment’s hesitation, he pelted upstairs and fetched his Invisibility Cloak. After pocketing the letter and Phoenix feather, he hurtled down one corridor and took the stairs three at a time, narrowly avoiding the trick step.
Miraculously, the grounds were empty – Harry’s path to the gates was clear.
“Whozair?” Hagrid’s booming voice echoed across the grounds. He staggered out of his hut, brandishing his pink umbrella.
Harry froze; in his haste to reach Hogsmeade, he hadn’t bothered to move quietly. Hagrid trudged across the grounds, staring blindly into the darkness. It was a moonless night and the only light came from castle windows; even without the Invisibility Cloak, Harry was sure he would be able to avoid detection. Slowly, Hagrid lowered his umbrella and tramped back to his hut, dragging his feet and muttering incoherently. Momentarily distracted by Hagrid’s demeanor, Harry followed him back across the grounds, pausing outside Hagrid’s hut to look inside.
The hut, badly damaged by fire at the end of the last school year, had been only patchily repaired. The roof had been re-thatched and the heavy wooden door restored to its original position, but the hut bore scars from the devastating blaze. Scorch marks grazed the walls and the scrubbed wooden table had lost two of its massive chairs – reduced to cinders that Hagrid had not bothered to sweep away. Hagrid sat in the remaining chair, gazing blearily into a tankard of firewhiskey; his face was red and splotchy from crying and his wiry beard unkempt. Fang, the boarhound, sat on the floor at Hagrid’ feet, lapping up a puddle of spilt alcohol.
Harry hovered outside the window, torn between comforting Hagrid and going ahead to Hogsmeade, as he knew he must. Fang lifted his head and whined slightly, as though he could sense Harry’s presence. Harry turned tail and pressed on towards the village of Hogsmeade.
* * * * *
As he wandered down High Street, he remembered last year’s sojourn into the village. As he looked over the glittering façade of the Three Broomsticks, he couldn’t help but recall the last evening he spent with the Hogwarts Headmaster. The memories rushed back: the cave by the sea, the debilitating potion, their return to Hogsmeade, how Dumbledore, shaken yet calm, had requested broomsticks, with the Dark Mark reflected twice in his half-moon spectacles. Subconciously, Harry crossed to the other side of the street so that his view of Hogwarts and the lightning-struck tower was obscured by storefronts.
It did not take Harry long to locate the Hog’s Head pub. He peered up and down High Street to ensure that no one was in sight before removing his Invisibility Cloak and slipping it into his pocket. Harry took a deep breath and stepped into the dark and dingy pub. A lone customer sat at the bar, sipping a tall brandy. The aged barman stood with his back to Harry, slothfully rearranging a shelf of dusty liquor bottles.
Harry took a seat at the bar and ordered a butterbeer, trying to sound as casual as possible. Aberforth Dumbledore’s gaze swept over Harry’s lightning bolt scar and he gave Harry a significant look, gesturing silently in the direction of his other customer. The man seemed in no hurry to leave; he sat hunched over the bar, slowly sipping his drink.
“Don’t look good, do it?” the man slurred after half-an-hour had passed’ neither Aberforth nor Harry answered. “Damn war. Never thought we’d have to go through it again, not after…” He sighed heavily and ordered another brandy ‘for the road.’ He clambered to his feet and slouched out of the bar without a word of goodbye.
Aberforth strolled slowly over to the grime-encrusted windows and watched in silence until the man had vanished from sight. At long last, he turned to face Harry.
“Mr. Potter.” He shook Harry’s hand. There was something familiar about his twinkling blue eyes and a trace of his brother Albus in the way he carried himself. “Albus told me to expect you.”
“You’ve been in contact with Dumbledore?”
Aberforth shook his head sadly. “Alas, I must say that my brother’s death was not entirely unexpected. There were certain arrangements already in place.”
Harry was quite taken aback. If Dumbledore had expected to die, why had he left Harry with so many unanswered questions?
“I daresay my brother expected something of the sort--”
“But he trusted Snape!” Harry burst out savagely, slopping butterbeer down his front.
Aberforth raised his hands, “I cannot say whether my brother was right to trust in Snape or not, but bear this in mind, Mr. Potter – things are not always as they seem.”
Harry breathed huffily.
“But unless I am much mistaken, you did not come here to discuss the affairs of Severus Snape?”
“No,” Harry foraged in his pocket and drew out the note and phoenix feather.
Aberforth cradled the phoenix feather in his weathered hands. “Ingenious, my brother,” he said approvingly. “Even in death, he is never far away.”
He disappeared into a back room and returned bearing the Pensieve. “Albus told me that you have experience with the Pensieve, yes?”
Harry swallowed hard and nodded.
Aberforth frowned at the Pensieve, now resting on the bar between them. “It would not be prudent to carry the Pensieve back to the school as it is,” he said, more to himself than to Harry. “Let us see.” He pulled out a dirty dishrag and draped it over the ancient stone basin. He waved his hand over it, murmuring enchantments under his breath, then removed the dishrag. Harry uttered a gasp of surprise; where the Pensieve had stood just moments before, a tailless cat now sat, blinking innocently up at Harry and Aberforth.
“Not quite what I intended,” Aberforth said with a small smile, “but this should do.” He drew out his wand and conjured a wicker basket from thin air. The cat hopped into the basket, purring noisily.
“Thank you, sir,” said Harry, feeling somewhat baffled as he hoisted the cat and basket into his arms.
“Best be off, Mr. Potter. You know where to find me, if you feel I can be of any assistance to you. I wish you the best of luck, Mr. Potter,” he said stoically and bowed Harry out of his pub.
* * * * *
“Ron, wake up!” Harry shook Ron urgently.
“S’matter?” Ron mumbled drowsily.
Harry said nothing, worrying that Seamus, Dean, or Neville might awaken, but even in his sleepy state, Ron grasped the gravity of the situation, and slipped out of bed without another word.
“How’re we going to get H-H-Hermione?” Ron yawned as they hurried across the Common Room together, Harry leading the way with the Invisibility Cloak draped over one arm and the cat and basket hooked in his other. “You know boys aren’t allowed into the girls’ dormitories…”
The image of Ron’s last attempt to gain access to the girls’ dormitories flashed before Harry’s eyes and he stifled a laugh. Harry rummaged in his pocket and pulled out a bronze Knut. Taking careful aim, he lobbed it up the stairs so that it clunked noisily against the stone wall.
“You’re going to get us caught!” Ron said.
Harry shook his head, smiling to himself. “Hermione’s a light sleeper and she’s Head Girl. If she hears one suspicious sound, she’ll be down here in a flash.” Harry tossed another Knut up the stairs and it chinked on the landing. Harry and Ron heard footsteps racing down the spiral staircase and a bedraggled Hermione came into view.
“If I catch whoever is out of bed at this hour of the night, they’ll be in detention for a week!” she exclaimed.
“G’morning, sunshine,” said Harry brightly. Hermione looked down at them in disbelief.
“Going to give us a detention, then, Hermione?” Ron snickered, scooping a fallen Knut off the bottom step.
“What on earth are you two up to?!” she padded softly down the stairs to join them.
“Waiting for you,” said Harry, indicating the cat and basket at his feet. “Lucky you got up when you did or we would’ve had to throw in the Dungbombs.”
“Wherever did it come from?” Hermione asked; she bent down to stroke the Manx behind the ears.
“I’ll tell you later,” Harry replied. “We need to go to the Room of Requirement. C’mon, under the Cloak.”
* * * * *
HERMIONE
Three times, they passed the blank expanse of wall on the seventh floor corridor. We need a place to be alone – some place safe, we need a place to be alone, we need a place to be alone.
A door appeared and Harry reached out and grasped the handle. The door swung open at once and the threesome found themselves peering into a small old-fashioned room. A table and three chairs were positioned directly in the center of the room; a fire danced merrily under a Victorian hearth. Ron closed the door quietly behind them and Harry freed the cat from its basket.
Hermione stooped down beside it, “What a darling cat. You don’t suppose Crookshanks would like her –”
“That’s no cat, Hermione.”
She looked up at him quizzically as the Manx nuzzled her knee. Harry pointed his wand at the cat and muttered something indistinct. In the blink of an eye, the purring cat disappeared. A stone basin stood in its place, silent and serene.
“Oh, Harry! I’ve never seen one before!” Hermione gasped, kneeling over the Pensieve to get a closer look at its contents. A silvery substance, something neither liquid nor solid, filled the basin. She ran her fingers over the runes along the rim of the Pensieve, but there was no time to decipher their meanings. “Dumbledore’s?” she asked.
Harry nodded somberly.
“However did you get it?” Hermione asked. A terrible thought crossed her mind. “No – Harry – you didn’t --”
“Didn’t what? Didn’t leave school? What do you expect, Hermione?!” Ron cried out in exasperation.
Hermione hung her head, feeling foolish. Of course Harry had left school. If she expected him to stay safe within the walls of the school now, after all that had happened, she knew she was sadly mistaken.
“The strangest thing happened –” Harry began; he was about to let slip that he had flung Hermione’s beloved Hogwarts, A History against a wall, but thought better of it. “I found a letter from Dumbledore –”
“Dumbledore?! You don’t reckon – he can’t believe alive, can he?” Ron sputtered.
“Harry, that could have been a trap!” Hermione said reproachfully. Her heart hammered painfully and she had to reassure herself that Harry was safe. This time, it had not been a trap.
“He’s gone,” Harry said stoically, ignoring Hermione’s fearful outcry. “It had one of Fawkes’ feathers with it.”
“What do you suppose he wants us to see, Harry?”
“More about Voldemort, maybe?” Ron wondered aloud.
“No. I don’t think so,” Harry shook his head slowly. “He said that he’d shown me all the memories he could collect.”
“Maybe he wants you to examine your own memories – to look for patterns, you know,” Hermione offered.
“There’s something already in here,” Harry murmured, probing the rippling surface of the Pensieve with his wand. “Come on…”
“After you,” Ron said, backing away from the Pensieve so that Harry could lean over and dive headfirst into its silvery currents. Hermione and Ron, who had never seen a Pensieve before, much less used one, followed with caution. Hermione plunged down through a whirlwind of color and just as she began to worry that something had gone wrong, she felt her feet land on steady ground.
“We’re still at Hogwarts!” Ron exclaimed. He steadied himself against a wall, clutching his stomach in a woozy sort of way.
“This way,” Harry hissed, beckoning for Hermione and Ron to follow him.
A strapping young man came into view. He strode forcefully up and down the corridors, his red cape billowing out behind him. He had a commanding presence, and Harry, Ron, and Hermione watched him with fascination – the youthful Godric Gryffindor, founder of Gryffindor House.
He could not have been older than thirty, for his handsome face was unlined and his step was brisk. He paused momentarily to gaze out one of the mullioned windows which imparted a splendid view of the grounds. The ranks of trees in the Forbidden Forest had been cut back, undoubtedly to aide in the construction of the Hogwarts castle. The glass-like surface lake glimmered in the late afternoon sunlight. Harry was so entranced by this thousand-year-old glimpse of Hogwarts that he barely noticed a willowy young woman sidle past him. She lingered beside Gryffindor and wove her fingers through her plaited brown hair.
“Isn’t it magnificent, Godric?” she asked breathlessly.
He nodded in assent. “Exquisite, Rowena.”
The two gazed over the grounds, admiring the work they had wrought.
Gryffindor turned back to her, smiling fondly, “You have completed the Muggle Repelling enchantments, I presume?”
A self-satisfied smile lit her features. “Naturally.”
“You never cease to amaze me, Rowena,” he said reverently. He shook his head, as if to clear it, before continuing. “And where have Salazar and Helga gone to?”
“Oh, patrolling the corridors, I imagine. Salazar wants to make certain everything is flawless…”
Gryffindor threw back his head and laughed. “Ah, Salazar - my dearest friend and a man of many idiosyncrasies–”
“One can never accuse Salazar of negligence, that much is certain,” Rowena Ravenclaw said guardedly.
“Now, now, fair Rowena!” Gryffindor’s voice remained steady, but his eyebrows arched warningly. “Don’t let me hear you speak like that lest you leave me under the impression that you hold a grudge against my most stalwart friend.”
Rowena Ravenclaw looked away, her manner suddenly frosty and distant. “Salazar concerns me, Godric.”
“Nonsense. He is a good man – a man with prejudices, but we all have our biases, Rowena!”
“You will not hear a word against him,” she said in a measured voice. “But I foresee trouble.” She turned her back on him and strode away, Godric Gryffindor staring wonderingly after her.
Gryffindor faded from view as the memory morphed smoothly into another.
A much older Godric Gryffindor stood by the same window, his brow furrowed in concern as he surveyed the scene outside. Across the grounds, flashes of light erupted from the blackness.
“Gryffindor!” A sharp voice echoed down the otherwise empty corridor.
“Salazar…” Gryffindor turned slowly to face the heckler. “This has gone on too long, Salazar…”
“You are ready to make amends?” Slytherin asked, a greedy sneer befouling his striking features.
Gryffindor sighed heavily. “I am not willing to make the amends you feel are necessary, Salazar.”
“Surely you do not wish to see the school torn apart, Gryffindor,” Slytherin hissed. “And over such a fickle thing…” He wound his black goatee around one bony finger, watching Gryffindor closely.
“I condemned your means long ago, Salazar,” said Gryffindor heavily. “You do not consider Hogwarts to be torn apart already, considering our current state of affairs?”
“I’m afraid I do not follow,” said Slytherin silkily.
“It does not do to dwell in shadows, Salazar.”
“Come into the light, then! See the way in which the tide is turning! The Wizarding World has never known darker times, Gryffindor – witch hunts, men and women being burnt at the stake! You know the root of our problems as well as I do.”
“Enlighten me,” Gryffindor said frigidly, refusing to allow Slytherin to dictate the terms of their conversation.
Slytherin laughed mirthlessly. “Surely we would not be facing such a dismal epoch today had we not accepted Muggleborns into our school in years past! In doing so we have exposed our world to those most likely to betray us! Better to have them thought madmen and lunatics in their homelands than allow them to come here! They learn our ways, and then dispatch them to the Muggle world at large!”
“Naturally, we each think we know what is best for the Wizarding Community,” Gryffindor conceded.
“What is to be gained by allowing Muggleborns to interlope in our world?” Slytherin demanded, wheeling on Gryffindor.
“Perchance the better question is, what is to be lost in denying them admittance?” Gryffindor replied calmly. “Some of our finest witches and wizards have come from varied backgrounds. Need I remind you of –”
Slytherin cursed under his breath. “Godric Gryffindor, champion of Mudbloods and filth! I long only for the preservation of our world; you will see it exploited, unveiled!”
“If only your aims were as noble as your discourse!” Gryffindor spat, losing his temper for the first time.
“Your so-called evenhandedness will usher you to an early grave, Gryffindor, and the sanctity of the Magical World will be buried with you!”
“Go, Salazar. Nothing can be achieved in the heat of anger.”
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