Paradox

Chapter 3:

Remus's questions were rather straightforward at first. They were things like "What's the last thing you remember?" and "What do you remember us doing yesterday?" They were helpful to me, as I was documenting exactly how much Harry could recall and from where Harry's memory loss began. They were probably significant to him as well, as most of the things Harry did involved him in some way or another.

Then, they began going into, "What kind of cologne do you regularly use?" and "What is your daily ritual before you begin your work?" and "What's your favorite food?" The questions Sirius would have bothered to ask, had he been a bit more composed. They were the kind of questions that changed over time, and weren't easy to remember. For example, nobody would remember what their favorite food fifteen years ago was. Remus had a very good memory, though, and he would have known if this Harry had answered a question wrong, and was actually a fake.

I merely observed Harry's health. He seemed to be improving, and the more he spoke, the more confident he became. While at the beginning, there had been a hesitancy about him, he was now sure of his answers.

Finally, Remus finished his interrogation, obviously satisfied with the answers he had received. He, being one of the few polite people in the room, surrendered the floor to me.

Glancing around, I decided that Sirius was no longer a good candidate for questions ... he believed that this was Harry, and that would influence the tone as well as the mode of his questions. Shrugging, I gestured for Ron to speak.

Ron fumbled with pieces of paper for a while, trying to shuffle notecards the same size as the ones in Hermione's hands (it was obvious she had tried to convince him that notecards and organization were the key to getting to the bottom of this ... although it looked as if in Ron's case, notecards weren't always the best idea) before giving them up and throwing them in the air. "Hermione," he said, turning to glare at his wife. "I told you that index cards wouldn't work!"

"Well," Hermione sniffed, "they always worked for me." She gave him a pointed look at the word "me".

He reddened immediately. I decided that this was a private matter, and most likely one I did not feel like knowing about. "Anyways," he cleared his throat. He looked at Harry with a gaze of stupefaction. "Umm ... when was the first time we met, the first time we met Hermione, the first time we all became friends, and umm ... the first 'evil' we faced together."

Harry smiled and began reciting. "We first met on the train, and Hermione came into the compartment later. We first became friends after fighting the troll, which is, I suppose, the first evil we faced together, along with Professor Snape and Malfoy-" He stopped in mid-sentence, realizing that both Headmaster Snape and Draco Malfoy were in the room. He coughed. (Something he seemed prone to doing when embarrassed.)

"Go ahead, Potter," Headmaster Snape said in his silkiest, most dangerous voice. "Continue what you were saying. I believe you had mentioned me?"

Ron, at this point, interrupted. "I think that's enough for now." He shot Headmaster Snape a nervous glance. I, on the other hand, could barely suppress a giggle. I myself was not affected by Headmaster Snape's manner. Although he often complained about us "addled Hufflepuffs", he never expressed open hostility toward us a she had towards the Gryffindors. Potions, as a matter of fact, were one of my favorite (and best) subjects, one of several reasons I became a Healer.

Interrogation continued in this manner, with Ron asking a question, Harry answering it, and either Headmaster Snape or Draco interrupting with outraged looks on their faces. I was perhaps the only one who noted the secret glances of amusement they shared at Harry and Ron's eagerness to not bring up matters of the past which were, I was sure, quite interesting. At one point, Ron had pleaded with me to tell Headmaster Snape and Draco to leave the room so he could ask the next question unmolested. When I refused, he sighed, and chose not to ask the question at all. I had a suspicious feeling that the question involved wrongs against either Headmaster Snape or Draco.

When Hermione's turn arrived to ask questions, I was much relieved, for the haphazard questioning Ron had given wasn't so much an interrogation as a mess of loud noise and chaos as Ron begged Harry not to say another word of one embarrassing incident or another.

Hermione shuffled her index cards neatly and spoke. "What crime did I commit against a teacher during your first Quidditch match in your first year?"

There was a silence. "First Quidditch match ..." he trailed off, seemingly deep in thought. I myself wondered at the obscure question. What was the type of crime that the prim and proper Hermione Granger would commit?

Ron grew impatient. "You know, the one that she did with the ... charm-thingy ... with the staring at your broomstick ... and the jinx."

"Ron," Hermione scolded.

Harry looked even blanker. "Umm ..." he mumbled, before shooting a glance at Headmaster Snape and Draco and a desperate one at Ron and Hermione.

"Oh, Harry," Hermione said irritably. "If I'm willing to ask the question, that means I'm willing to let others know the answer. It's not like I'm not a fully-grown witch. I'm twenty-eight, and I think I know how to handle a couple of-"

Harry's heartbeat, which had been accelerating due to his nervousness, was now alarmingly fast, thanks to Hermione's piece of information. "Twenty-eight?" he managed to choke out, before I place my wand at his right temple, and he fell into unconsciousness.

I was mad. I turned to glare at Hermione, who looked uncertain. "I thought we had agreed that we were not to let him know of his Petrification state until he was fully stabilized. He would not be allowed to know of his 'jump' into the future for precisely this reason. Now he most likely needs to undergo weeks of therapy before he can meet someone he used to know. Finding yourself with friends who look different is hard enough. Finding out that they are eight years older than they should be can cause irreversible trauma, especially to someone who has been Petrified for an extended period of time. If he wasn't Petrified, the other alternatives present even worse ramifications, and the one thing we do not want him to undergo is trauma. I expected more from you, Miss Granger."

While Hermione and I had never exactly been friends, we'd gotten pretty close after the Hufflepuff Sanctuary was built (in honor of the many Hufflepuffs who died on this spot, defending the beliefs they held dear) since I was the Head Healer of the Hufflepuff Sanctuary, and that meant that I was in charge of taking care of her children. Over time, we had gotten more comfortable with calling each other by our given names versus our surnames. My outrage at her mistake and violation of my authority was understandable. Her stiffening and immediate cold response was unwarranted.

"Well, Miss Abbott," she said, deliberately letting drop the "Madam" that was a requisite of my title, "I was unaware that you," (and your ...Hufflepuff Sanctuary remained unsaid), "had not yet informed Harry of his condition."

Ron, sensing his wife's hostility, moved to calm her down. "I'm sure no-one has any doubts that Harry is who he really is, and possesses most of his mental faculties. Once he's had a thorough check-up, I'm sure we'll be able to welcome him to our home soon."

"Actually," I said, rather acidly, "Mr. Potter," (if that is who he is remained unsaid), "will need to undergo a thorough genetic analysis first before we can confirm his identity." I ignored my twinge of guilt at Sirius's downtrodden expression upon learning his godson wouldn't be allowed home yet. "And even afterwards, we are not sure he possesses his mental and/or physical faculties, and we may not be able to find any more today thanks to some of the actions of our interrogators." I ignored another twinge of guilt at Ron's hurt look upon being chastised so roundly for something I didn't even begrudge him (rather, it was against that shrew of a woman he called his wife that I had a grudge against).

Before my statement could continue further, a Novice (higher in education only to the Student) burst into the room. She could only pant out two words in her exhaustion, but those two words chilled me to the bone. "Press. Paparazzi."

There was immediately turmoil in the room. Not one of the celebrities in the room had escaped the vicious quill of the press as their words were twisted and their actions speculated upon. Elopements were interrupted when the small legal building Ginny and Draco had been in (registering for their own marriage) had been mobbed by the self-same reporters that were threatening to crowd the Hufflepuff Sanctuary out of its patients. I took charge immediately.

I pointed to Gillette, a very competent and newly-graduated Healer. "Cover up his curtains, claim that he has an incurable disease, and deny any claims that he might look like Harry Potter. I give you full authority to Expel these reporters from this building if you need them. Tell them he has ... indocreptoxinellosia," I decided, ignoring her disbelieving giggle at the disease considered the joke of Interns. I gestured to Draco, Ginny, and Headmaster Snape. "You three head out from the trapdoor under that Persian carpet over there." I bit my lip, staring at Remus and Sirius, before finally gesturing to the door leading to the adjoining room. "There's a secret hallway behind the tapestry of the Baroque depictatation of Deborah's stand at Armageddon. And you two," I finished at Ron and Hermione, "can put on those Invisibility Cloaks I'm sure you have on somewhere, and head out the window, which as conveniently-grown ivy that will let you climb on it if and only if you whisper 'First to arrive and last to leave' to it." I suppressed the increasingly insistent urge to bid them stay for some reason or another and weather it out. I knew the reporters would overwhelm them within instants, and no matter my current displeasure towards Hermione, neither she nor Ron deserved such treatment.

Straightening my pristinely white Healer robes, I mad my way out the door with all due speed, slowing down just before the Great Doors (the main entrance). I could hear much clamor outside, even as a few desperate Healer voices demanded order and threatened (rather weakly) to kick all the reporters of the grounds. With a rather dramatic flourish, I flicked the doors open with my wand, closing them behind me with a jerk of my head after I stepped through. I walked sedately to the front of the crowd, which had suddenly become quiet.

I looked around. "Who is disrupting my Sanctuary?" I asked icily, abandoning my "senile-old-nun" face and put on my "competent-and-cold-director-of-the-Sanctuary" face, conveniently reminding the reporters that although I seemed senile, I was younger than most of them.

One rather bold reporter lifted his electric blue Quick Quotes Quill and called out, "Madam Abbott, can you confirm the rumors that Harry Potter is being held within your Sanctuary?"

His one question was like a spark dropping amidst a puddle of gasoline, and immediately, there was a furor as each reporter strained to have his own questions heard and answered.

"Sonorus" I muttered beneath my breath, and slowly breathed in. "SILENCE!!!" I demanded. And the crowd quieted down instantly. Inwardly, I mused. And I said, let there be silence, and there was silence. I barely suppressed a chuckle, which would have greatly undermined my intimidating glare. Brusquely, I gestured for a young Japanese trainee who had the most intelligence and competence of all the Healers and Healers-in-training present to step forward.

She did. "Madam Abbott has asked a question," she said in a frigid voice, her accent hardly noticeable beneath all that ice. Inwardly, I wondered how she had mastered that icy glare to perfection, for it was even more chilling than Snape's when his was directed towards a Gryffindor.

The reporters all exchanged nervous glances, and mulled around for a bit, before a familiar lime-green quill shot up in the air. I groaned inwardly. Rita Skeeter, always hovering for a scoop, had been up-and-running for well nigh two decades, and yet, she didn't seem any older. The only hiatus she had taken in her entire career was an unexplained year after my Fourth Year in which she campaigned to prove that Harry Potter was a deranged madman. After that hiatus, she resumed her vicious career, only taking care to no longer focus her quill on Hogwarts or Harry in any way, shape, or form. "I am Rita Skeeter, and I represent the Daily Prophet. I have come for an interview," she said in her acid-purple robes (a color I had not known existed until that moment.)

The Japanese girl, Mizuno Ami was her name and she was actually just as old as I but seemed younger, directed the force of her icy stare to Rita. Rita responded by focusing an acid smirk upon the blue-haired girl. (I chose not to ask Ami what she had done to her hair, but rumor had it her hair was naturally blue because of some charm her mother had accidentally done.) "Madam Abbott does not give interviews. Request denied."

"I did not request an interview," Rita began. "I represent the uninformed readers who wish to know-"

"No, you represent the misconception that just because there is freedom of press, there is no slander. You represent the middle-aged witches who have nothing better to do with their lives than read untruths and gossip-"

Rita's voice began to rise. "No, I represent those of our readers who want to know what is really going on, not what people attempt to cover up-"

Ami's voice, however, remained the same level tone; although it sounded like she could be heard better than Rita because of the way she projected her voice. "As it is, the crux of the matter is that your request, for it is a request, no matter your misconceptions as to the Rights of the Sorcerous, established in 900 B.C.E. and adhered to strictly by all wizardkind, is denied, and you are requested to leave the grounds, or else I'm afraid we shall have to have you thrown off."

For once, Rita Skeeter had been bested by words and by speed (for if she had squeezed some of her comments in a bit quicker, the argument would have lasted longer). She appeared unflustered, even as her Quick Quotes Quill seemed to have a field day, no doubt noting how monstrously she was being treated.

"And," Ami added, "Quick Quotes Quills are contraband in the Hufflepuff Sanctuary, which you all would have known had you bothered to read the rules." She raised a peculiar blue pen (she had a peculiar magical upbringing, and thus found herself more at home doing magic with rather odd objects as mediums instead of wands) and muttered something under her breath. Immediately, all of the Quick Quotes Quills on the property of the Hufflepuff Sanctuary turned to ice, and the words written by them melted away.

I nodded briskly, signaling that I would take over at this point. As she stepped back, I noticed a faint sheen of sweat on her forehead for having to stand out in public. Ami was a rather shy person, and didn't enjoy public speaking much sometimes.

"Any rumors you have heard of Harry Potter being here were started up by idle gossipers. Please leave the grounds before I Expel you."

"Then what were you doing just now?" one reporter asked, grinning as if having pulled out a trump card. "Why have Sirius Black, Remus Lupin, Ron Weasley, Hermione Granger-Weasley, Severus Snape, Virginia Malfoy and Draco Malfoy convened at the Hufflepuff Sanctuary?"

"Do you see these aforementioned celebrities here anywhere?" I asked, raising an eyebrow. "I certainly don't. I don't know who your sources, but they are certainly inconsistent. Who could get Severus Snape and Sirius Black under the same roof without knocking either one or both of the out first?"

Chuckles greeted by rhetorical statement.

"Then who were you with?" another random voice demanded. "Who were you closeted up with the entire morning?"

I wondered internally who had been giving these reporters their information, for it was a Healer or trainee, said trainee or Healer would immediately be asked to leave the Hufflepuff Sanctuary. I was about to respond, when another voice answered from behind me.

"Madam Abbott was discussing my son's condition with me," I heard Sally-Ann's voice said frostily. "Is there any reason she shouldn't have listened to my demand that she explain her diagnosis?"

The reporters almost all backed away as one. Sally-Ann's reputation was formidable. After the War, only one reporter had attempted to interview her. Afterwards, it had taken Sirius and Remus a long time to get her acquitted of all charges, and finally had to rely on her reputation as a war hero (although a questionable one) to pull her through the judicial process. As for the reporter ... no-one ever found his remains. There were rumors that she had turned him into a turnip, or a mink coat, or something equally bizarre and revolting, but these were just the urban legends that always lurked in the modern world.

The ones on the edges of the crowd were first to flee. After a couple of (playful) sparks shot at them by some of the formidable looking, black-robed Students, and some menacing (and illusory) sounds of hounds howling (and an equally illusory murmur of: "Finally the dogs are here to chase them off), the reporters fled. For some reason, I felt that this exodus of reporters had been too easy, but I shrugged it off. Instead, I turned to face Sally-Ann with wariness. Sally-Ann never did anything without expecting something in return. I was unsure of what she wanted, but I was sure that I would pay for her help.

To my surprise, there was a concerned frown on her face as her eyes followed the last of the straggling reporters hightailing it out of the Sanctuary, before casting her contemplative gaze on me.

Finally she spoke. "Do you think you could visit the Baddock Manor right now? Do you have the time?"

I was surprised at her request, but knew that I was not needed at the Sanctuary for another couple of hours at least. "Yes, I'm free," I said.

"Good," she said decisively. "We shall Floo to the Manor."

This surprised me because Sally-Ann never Flooed. She rode in carriages as Victorian as the ones of days long gone by, and Apparated with a distinctive pop dissimilar to the cracks of amateur Apparators (only those truly skilled could so with a pop), but she never Flooed.

It took moments to find a handy fireplace, and less than a second to locate the Floo powder. I watched her figure retreat in the flames contemplatively, even as I moved to grab a pinch of the Floo powder for myself. I sprinkled it into the fire and stepped in. All of a sudden, I felt a strong urge to stay at the Sanctuary, to not follow Sally-Ann, but it was too late. The words "Baddock Manor" had already left my mouth.

The peculiar urge to stay left me as soon as I arrived yet the dismal yet homey (an almost impossible-to-manage combination) Baddock Manor, and greeted a grave Sally-Ann.

Sally-Ann was not known for beating around the bush, and she proved it even now. "I think your emotions are being manipulated."

To be continued ...