Chapter 36

A few days previously Skeeter had been working away in the Ministry library. The library was huge: an enormous, flattened cylinder resting on its elliptical base, resembling the famous operating theatre at Padua, except built on a truly vast scale. The main room was easily a hundred yards in length and half as wide. The walls rose up and up to a ceiling that soared at a height no Muggle architect would consider, but which was trivial for the wizards who had designed the place. At intervals enormous windows provided lighting, but these too were magical, for the library was deep inside the Ministry and bordered on no outside wall. The dim, grey light that entered was inadequate for the cavernous space, most of which was only dimly lit. Any wall space not taken up by a window was occupied by shelving, each shelf crammed with seemingly endless volumes of books, records, parchments and deeds. Narrow circular staircases soared upwards. At a distance the staircases looked flimsy in the huge room, but they were sturdy, of wrought iron and very ancient. The stairs connected the innumerable decks that jutted out ten feet from the walls and which had tables and chairs for patrons.

Skeeter worked at level forty-three, a long, tiring trek from the ground floor. Had the library been built after apparation was invented, there would have been no staircases. But then the wandless Skeeter would have been denied access to anything that was not on the ground floor, and so she did not mind the difficult climb that left her lamenting her lost youth, gasping for breath and her thighs and calves burning. She had been working for several hours without a break, and was beginning to feel hungry. But she was making such progress that she was reluctant to interrupt the flow of her writing. Skeeter stretched, and putting her head on the table, closed her eyes for a moment's rest.

Shortly after Skeeter's Wizengamot hearing, she had received Hermione's permission to resume her writing career, and had immediately set to work on her biography of Grindlewald. She had been toiling on this for some years, but only intermittently, for she had always been busy with her syndicated columns and magazine articles. But now the only demand on her time was her work as a domestic helper, and this was less than forty hours a week, leaving her with plenty of time on her hands for other things. The only writing that interested her now was historical writing - her first love. Freed of almost all other obligations, she was able to throw herself into the Grindlewald project with renewed enthusiasm.

She loved burying herself in the Ministry's library, sitting at her usual table in a remote, seldom-visited corner, surrounded by stacks of old newspaper articles and records. In the last few years internal ministry papers of all kinds had been declassified, not because the Ministry was becoming more open (in fact the opposite was the case), but because most Ministry records were sealed only so long and then automatically became public, and so more and more highly pertinent documents were becoming available each month. No one in the Ministry had thought to change this policy, and until someone did, Skeeter would have new research material every week. On the table before Skeeter were a series of memos written some years before Grindelwald's defeat, in which the panicked confusion of the Ministry was made plain. The Minister at the time had been ineffectual, and his refusal to recognize the growing danger was one of the main reasons that Grindelwald's rise to power had been possible. "Perhaps Fudge is that Minister's descendant," thought Skeeter as she made notes about the memos on her laptop. There was of course no place to plug in her computer, and so she had extra batteries with her so that she could keep working. A used notebook was a very recent acquisition, and Skeeter cherished it. In some respects, it was better than her magical quill. She resolved to keep typing away for another hour, despite the fact lunch time had come and gone and her stomach was only too aware of the fact. But something other than hunger interrupted her - a paper airplane settled in front of her and demanded her attention.

Skeeter had never received a message by paper airplane before: it was a method of communication reserved, she thought, for official Ministry business. She reached out and unfolded the airplane, and learned that she was wanted in office of the Deputy Director in the Department of International Magical Co-operation. She opened her purse for a pen, and wrote on the airplane that she would come immediately, but that it would take some time, given her location and the fact that she could not apparate. Refolding the airplane, she cheerfully launched it from the railing of the platform on the forty-third floor. The airplane circled a couple of times, and then, having oriented itself, settled into a steep dive aimed at the main doors. Skeeter lost sight of the airplane in the gloom, and then spotted it as it reached the main floor, a small speck of white that briefly flashed by the front desk and then through the doors. Skeeter packed up her laptop and notes, and then headed for the first of the forty-three staircases she would need to descend. The climb down would be much easier than the climb up, but still it would take her at least twenty minutes to reach the ground floor. She had just reached the bottom of the stairs at level thirty-eight when she heard the distinctive pop of a nearby apparating wizard, and turning, encountered Arthur Weasley. After her sentencing she had sent him a letter filled with her profuse thanks for his help in keeping her out of Azkaban, but had not had the chance to meet him. She immediately began to express her gratitude, but Weasley cut her off.

"Sorry to interrupt," he said, "but we can talk later. Right now we need you in my office. Time is not exactly of the essence, but you know I'd hate to keep Dumbledore waiting, so when the airplane came back with your message I thought I'd come fetch you myself." Taking Skeeter's arm, Weasley instantly and expertly apparated them both back to his office, where the Headmaster awaited them in a comfortable chair, holding a glass of his favourite elderberry wine.

Skeeter had last seen Dumbledore over Christmas at 12 Grimmauld Place. She had not been expecting to see him again any time soon, and her delight at encountering the elderly wizard was plain to see as she greeted him in enthusiastic but respectful terms. Her happiness increased when she heard what Dumbledore had come for.

"I have a favour to ask of you, Ms. Skeeter."

Skeeter's face lit up upon hearing this. "You know I will do anything for you - anything at all. I owe you a debt that I can never repay, but perhaps I can contribute something towards the interest, at least."

"I fear my request might be usurious," replied the headmaster with a smile. "To be blunt, what I ask will to some extent spoil what would otherwise have been good news. For years you have been trying to get permission to visit the defeated dark lord, Grindelwald. But your request was never supported by the Ministry, and thus it was always unlikely that the authorities at Nurmengard would agree to allow you access to Grindelwald. But your most recent request was seconded by the Department of International Magical Co-operation, and this time, met with the prison's approval."

"But my most recent request was four years ago," said Skeeter.

"No, it was last week," said Dumbledore. "I'm quite sure of that, because I submitted it myself, trusting that you would not mind my doing so on your behalf. And so you are to see my old friend very shortly - tomorrow, in fact. I hope you did not have other plans."

Skeeter smiled. "Obviously I cannot go myself, if I am to go tomorrow. Who will take me there?"

"That is why I say that the good news is somewhat spoiled," replied Dumbledore. "You wanted to see Grindelwald for your own purposes, whereas I want you there for an entirely different reason. Nurmengard believes you will be escorted by someone I have appointed for the purpose, when in fact it will be you who is the escort. You will be escorting Harry Potter. The reason I arranged things this way is I thought it was the easiest method by which Harry could gain access. You will get your chance to see Grindelwald, but the visit will be a waste of your time, for most of the meeting will be devoted to a purpose of mine, and not yours. To put it bluntly, you are being used." Dumbledore hated the thought of manipulating others, and when he was forced to make use of someone, preferred to do it straight up rather than practice subterfuge.

"Professor, do I need to say how happy I am to be of any use to you at all?" replied Skeeter. But Dumbledore did not need to hear this. Skeeter had made her feelings clear enough when, at 12 Grimmauld Place after her trial, she had met Dumbledore in the library he used as an office, and had thanked him in fulsome terms, leaving the headmaster with no doubt as to her feelings.

"Perhaps I overstate the sacrifice I am asking you to make," said Dumbledore. "It may be that you will learn something from Grindelwald that will help you. I suspect that my old friend may be in illegal possession of a pensieve. If so, and if he can be persuaded to part with it, then you will have gained something of great value. If I am right, and if he does give it to you, I ask that you bring the pensieve to me before attempting to delve into its contents."

"If I do get a pensieve from him, I will not read any of its contents until you are done with it," said Skeeter.

"It will look rather odd were you to leave his cell carrying such an object," said Dumbledore, "and so I will give you one to take with you. You can tell the authorities that you will be making use of it during the interview. If Grindelwald does have a pensieve, perhaps he can be persuaded to trade it for the one you bring with you. A warning, though. Grindelwald cannot be manipulated. If you sense he is unsure about what he wants to do, it would be a error for you to attempt to persuade him. I never could persuade him of anything, and for reasons which I will not explain I knew him better, or at least thought I did, than anyone on earth. If there is an opportune moment to make the request for his pensieve, you may do so. But the only argument you can use is your own need. Do not try to tell him it would be in his own interests to grant your request."

With these words of instruction, the headmaster indicated that it was time for him to go, and that Arthur Weasley would brief her on the details of her trip. He took a final sip of his elderberry wine, and disappeared.

"But why me?" said Harry to Imogen, after she read him Skeeter's letter. "Why am I escorting Skeeter tomorrow? Why did she ask Dumbledore that I be the escort? Surely someone from the Order should go. Kingsley or Tonks, for example."

"That's true," replied Imogen. "But did it occur to you that perhaps those two have more important things to do than to babysit Skeeter while she works on her book?" Dumbledore had instructed Skeeter to make sure that the real purpose of the trip was not revealed to Harry. He was to think that his was an escort - nothing more - and Skeeter's letter was consistent with the headmaster's instructions.

"But I can't apparate to Nurmengard, and I don't think Skeeter's allowed to, either. In fact, I don't think anyone's able to apparate into the prison."

"True enough," said Imogen. "Your godfather Sirius will apparate with both of you as far as the Island of Faro, and you'll make your way to Nurmengard by boat from there.

The island of Faro - so obscure it does not even rate a Wikipedia entry. A tiny island, hardly more than a dot above the more significant island of Gotland. Almost in the centre of the Baltic Sea, it was flat, sandy and almost devoid of distinguishing features, and only sparsely populated. The locals spoke an archaic form of Swedish, and were not known for being open to outsiders. But there was little chance of Skeeter, Harry and Sirius meeting anyone this morning, for the weather was foul, the land lashed by a winter storm. Waves crashed onto the nearby beach, sending an unwelcome, bone-chilling spray into the air. The sun had been up for a while, but nonetheless the day was dark, the light dimmed by the heavy, deep clouds that hung low above the land. The rain came down so furiously that it was difficult to breath unless one's back was turned to the wind. But fortunately the wind was blowing almost directly out to sea, making it somewhat easier for the three to maintain a watch for the boat that was to meet them.

"If they don't come this instant, we'll have to seek shelter," said Sirius to Skeeter's great relief. "I'm already soaked through and through."

"Look!" said Harry, his arm pointing out to sea. "I see a boat!"

The small cutter had just rounded the headland, and then tacked, sailing across the bay. They all watched, and then a flag was raised. Sirius instantly recognized the flag's device: the Deathly Hallows mark. Taking hold of Skeeter and Harry, he apparated them onto the boat - a difficult feat, given the speed with which it was moving. Strong hands took hold of Harry and the others, leading them below deck and away from the fury of the storm. None of them possessed sea legs, and without assistance they would have stumbled about helplessly, easy prey to the large waves which crashed over the side. Skeeter and Harry went down the ladder first. Despite the help he was receiving, Sirius managed to miss his grip on the ladder, and fell most of the way down the hatch, landing in a painful heap.It took a few minutes for the sailors to get Sirius to his feet, and then they walked him down a narrow passageway to a small cabin, where he joined Harry and Skeeter. The writer was on her knees, her hands clutching a bucket in a vise-like grip as she was violently ill.