Chapter 202 - Trust — Words Unspoken

Only after the two of them stepped inside the old Black family house did they learn that Mundungus had died.

"I forced him to go." Moody took the blame without hesitation. "Mundungus proposed the decoy plan, but he was weak-willed. I was afraid he'd sell us out — for money, or just out of cowardice."

If Mundungus hadn't been the one to propose the plan, Moody wouldn't have let him anywhere near this operation. He would have taken Ron or Hermione instead.

Moody was not Dumbledore. He couldn't be certain he could cover every mistake. They had already paid for Peter Pettigrew's betrayal, and they couldn't afford to dismiss the possibility that any cowardly member might turn. Only Winnie Brown fit the bill: strong in a fight, knowledgeable about Death Eaters, and with Pernell as leverage. Moody had seen her nearly kill Bellatrix after saving Sirius Black. He knew this former Death Eater struck without hesitation. She was a companion you could trust, one who wouldn't go soft when it mattered.

Regrettably, Winnie did everything right. Mundungus didn't.

There was also one inexplicable question: how had the Death Eaters known Harry was being moved today?

Many people in the room suspected Mundungus. But Mundungus was dead now. Calling him a traitor felt cruel.

"Alastor, this is not your fault." Kingsley spoke up. "The Dark Lord killed Mundungus, not you. The battlefield is unpredictable. You made the best arrangements you could."

A brutal truth: the person who makes the decisions bears the greatest responsibility. The people carrying out those decisions don't always follow the plan exactly, but when things go wrong, the blame circles back to whoever called it. People expect their leaders to see a hundred moves ahead, to make perfect choices every time. But people aren't wizard chess pieces, they have their own will. The trouble is these decisions involve lives. Over the long run, no one can carry that weight indefinitely, yet someone always has to.

Kingsley understood the feeling. That's why he spoke up, hoping Moody might go easier on himself.

The irony was that nobody thought to do the same for the last person who had carried an even heavier burden. That person was Dumbledore. People believed unconditionally that Dumbledore was omniscient, omnipotent. So no one had ever told him to go easier on himself, either.

"I take full responsibility for Mundungus's death," Moody said, shaking his head. "But his death was not the plan. The Dark Lord's original target was Winnie. He hated her for her betrayal..."

"I know what you're implying — you suspect Mundungus!" Sirius Black shot up from the corner. "Yes, I despised that wretched little man too. But the Death Eaters clearly didn't know we had seven Potters. If Mundungus really sold us out, why didn't he tell them that? Why didn't he hand them the one thing that would have finished it?"

The Order argued in circles. Some suspected Mundungus. Some said they couldn't go down that road, it would poison the trust they had left. Some said that without a thorough investigation, the danger would never go away.

Winnie and Ms. Prim stayed tucked in a corner and kept their mouths shut. Let them argue until the ceiling came down. As long as Winnie wasn't pulled into it, it was none of their business.

"Enough!"

Harry stood up.

The entire drawing room went quiet. Every set of eyes landed on him at once, and he looked faintly self-conscious under the weight of it. A little nervously, he said, "I think — even if someone made a mistake, we should let it go."

From Praeris, Harry had learned something important. Trust.

He had suspected Praeris so many times. Her house, her love life, her mentor. But the facts had proven him wrong again and again. Praeris was someone worth trusting.

The shift hadn't been easy. And the suspicion he'd already shown couldn't be undone. It had hurt her. By the time Harry had come to trust her, she no longer needed it from him.

Just now, asking Hermione for the two-way mirror, Harry had felt a sharp, heavy shame. They were paying for the cracks left by those old mistakes. People only regret when they've truly felt the cost.

None of it had been something they were owed. Not Praeris's presence. Not her help. Not the sacrifices she'd made across house lines. None of it.

He remembered what Praeris had said: Dumbledore's greatness was his courage to give trust.

Even Hagrid, hadn't he been fooled over a dragon egg, hadn't he leaked information about the Philosopher's Stone?

Harry steadied his voice, matching that calm, clear tone he'd heard from Dumbledore and from Praeris. "The past is the past. We have to look forward. This is a critical moment in the fight against Voldemort. We need to stand together. We need to trust each other. I trust everyone in this room. And I believe there is no one here who would sell out..." A small pause. "My life."

"Good grief."

Praeris sank back into the sofa. The moment her nerves unclenched, exhaustion hit like a wall. She didn't rest long. She dragged herself upright and went to prepare Dumbledore's potion.

The past few weeks had been a rare window for Dumbledore to recover in peace. Then tonight had happened.

Well. There were other reasons she couldn't sleep, too.

She was worried about Professor Snape. Worried about Draco. The assassination attempt last night could easily come back on Professor Snape. And if the incident was traced to Malfoy Manor, Draco would be caught in the middle of it.

Voldemort had placed protective enchantments on the Malfoy household, yet someone had still gotten in. It would be almost impossible for the manor's owners to walk away clean.

There had been too many failures. Someone had to answer for them. Peter Pettigrew, who'd been assigned to feed Nagini, wasn't remotely significant enough to take that fall. The only question was where Voldemort would aim his fury.

"Praeris." Dumbledore's voice. "I need you to do something for me."

Praeris looked up. "You already owe enough debts."

"One more won't crush me." Dumbledore shrugged.

Praeris raised an eyebrow. "Fine. What is it?"

"I need you to confirm—" His eyes caught the light. "Whether Harry has already destroyed the locket."

Five of the 7 Horcruxes had been definitively destroyed. What remained were the locket Dumbledore had clutched in his hand "before his death," and Harry himself.

"That's all?" Praeris asked, surprised.

Dumbledore smiled. "It's not as simple as it sounds."

Dawn came.

Dumbledore was wrong. It was simple.

He himself knew the Order of the Phoenix's location was Number Twelve, Grimmauld Place, and the house's owner, Sirius Black, was still alive. Since Dumbledore's death, the protections had been reinforced. There was no safer place than that.

Praeris released her owl near the British Museum with a message for Hermione: she wanted to see her. The reply came back fast, strangely fast. Hermione said she'd come immediately.

"What happened?"

Praeris had settled into a coffee shop in Russell Square to wait, and ordered chestnut cake.

Struggle was written all over Hermione's face. It took a while before she spoke. "Would you be willing to help George?"

Inside the Order of the Phoenix, it turned out, there had been some dispute about the idea of bringing Praeris to Number Twelve, Grimmauld Place to treat George.

For George's sake, the Weasleys had no objections at all. They trusted the girl who had helped Bill.

But Moody, worn down by years of war, suspected everyone. And in his eyes, Praeris's appearance at this moment was far too convenient.

Only yesterday, they'd learned Praeris had been in Devon. Today she'd suddenly turned up in London, in broad daylight, right after the Order's operation. Not being suspicious of that would have been the strange thing.

"Then he goes untreated!" Winnie snapped. "As if Prae somehow knew there was someone here who needed her!"

Moody held firm. "I have nothing against Prince personally, but her connection to Snape is common knowledge!"

Harry and Hermione exchanged a glance. They both knew Snape was Praeris's relative. Snape had cut off George's ear, and now Praeris was being asked to help grow it back. The situation was almost painfully layered.

"I was a Death Eater!" Winnie said, completely unbothered. "Sirius is still a Black. Tonks still has to call Bellatrix 'Aunt'!"

Another round of arguing. Then the drawing room went quiet again, the silence peculiar, weighted.

In the early hours, Harry's words had earned the approval of every Order member in the room. Now, he played the same card again. "Whether or not we need Praeris right now, I have no objection to her coming here — if Sirius doesn't mind. Mad-Eye, I believe Praeris is reliable."

"I think Harry's right." Hermione, who had barely spoken, cut in. "Mad-Eye, when Barty Crouch Jr. had you locked in that trunk, it was Praeris who got you out. She was the one who ruined Barty Crouch Jr.'s plan."

That landed like a stone in still water. Most people in the room had never heard this. Even Moody himself had never known who pulled him from that trunk.

In the end, they agreed to send Hermione to meet Praeris.

Hermione left feeling quietly unhappy. Some of them didn't actually trust Praeris. They just had no choice but to trust her. That was a different thing entirely.

She didn't want Praeris to know. She didn't want to hurt her. But she had long since gotten used to the fact that she couldn't hide her thoughts around Praeris.

"It doesn't matter," Praeris said, calm. "Many people don't trust Dumbledore. Many don't respect him either. But they need him."

She included herself in that, she said. She was just one of the people who needed Dumbledore.

Praeris wasn't a pound sterling. And even pound sterling had people who threw money away without a second thought. For someone with real strength, how others saw her was beside the point. What mattered was whether she could accomplish what she set out to do.

At the mention of Dumbledore, Hermione looked down. Her eyes filled with tears. Then, with no logic connecting her thoughts, she said, "Praeris... Mundungus is dead... I'm completely alone now."

Mundungus is dead? Wait. What did Mundungus's death have to do with Hermione being alone?

Praeris turned it over carefully. "You're feeling awful, aren't you? Because of Mundungus dying... it hit you. The cruelty of this war hit you. Is that it?"

Hermione nodded, crying. Praeris quickly cast a spell to make the people around them look the other way, and Hermione finally let the words out, everything she'd been holding back.

As it turned out, this girl had endured a brutal month.

Hermione knew what she was doing was dangerous. She knew the Death Eaters wouldn't spare the people their enemies loved. So at the start of the summer, she had modified her parents' memories and sent them to Australia, far from all of it.

But she couldn't do the same with Krum.

She couldn't make him forget who he'd cared for. She couldn't drag him into a war where people died. And she couldn't tell him the truth.

"I told Krum..." Hermione said, her voice hollow. "That it was over between us."

Krum had invited her to the lavender fields of the Cotswolds. They stood on the ridge between the rows, and his shy smile simply vanished, wiped blank in an instant.

"Какво каза?"

(Bulgarian: What?)

It was as if, in that one moment, every bit of English he'd ever learned had drained away. Only his mother tongue remained.

Hermione kept her head down, her hands gripped tight together. Word by word: "Vil. I'm so sorry."

"What did I do. Not good?"

His English came out broken, like when he'd first started learning it.

Hermione shook her head. "No. You're wonderful."

"Then, why?" He kept his voice controlled. "This is not like you. Has something bad happened?"

"No." Something pressed against her chest, blocking her breath. "I'm just a jerk."

"You are not!" He said it too loud, then caught himself and dropped his voice fast, as if he was afraid of startling her. "Hermy-own-ninny. You are good. Better. Best."

He pulled every comparative he'd ever learned and stacked them all on one person.

"Vil, don't you understand?" Hermione pulled in a breath and let it all out at once. "It's exactly like what Rita Skeeter wrote in the papers. I'm a woman who plays with men's feelings. I like collecting capable men, men like you and Harry. Once I've had my fill, it's time to move on."

Krum stood there. Stunned, maybe. Or perhaps the translator in his head had simply given up. He didn't move. Didn't speak.

A long moment passed.

"Hermy-own-ninny," he said finally. "Most of what reporters write is not true. But I truly know you." A pause. "You are not that kind of girl."

Hermione felt the helplessness of it. She was shoving him toward safety as hard as she could, and he kept refusing to go. He wouldn't grasp that she was ending things. He just kept stopping her from tearing herself down.

She went almost cold. "Then you don't know me well enough. I'm telling you the truth because you were good to me. But Vil, playing dumb won't change anything." She looked at him. "Искам да се разделим."

In Bulgarian, directly, plainly: I want to break up.

Hermione still remembered it clearly. The sky had been bright that day, the sun sharp and clean over the lavender. And Krum had looked exactly like a great bear caught in the rain, his whole body heavy with a grief he made no attempt to hide.

➤ Next: Parting and Regret