An Unfound Door
Chapter Two – The Madman's Lullaby
Harry flew down the country for the better part of an hour before he left Scotland behind and crossed into England.
Twelve grams shattered diamond, he thought, licking his lips to keep them from drying out against the wind. Thirty drops dried aniseed essence. Cedar wood shavings, twenty-eight grams. Bring to 'boil' over a cold flame of midnight…
He flew over the city of Carlisle, quick and sure, the compass point never swinging too far from southwest. The needle shone brighter every ten miles or so, letting him know he was approaching his quarry. It had been dull most of the trip, so a sign that he was getting close was encouraging. With any luck, he'd be wherever he was going within an hour and heading back to Hogwarts before sunset.
Distilled Fayth of Dragon's Blood, one fluid ounce. Quarter mix of liquored… Reciting the recipe to his crystal blue potion kept his mind sharp, clear. It was a complex brew, unique to the Arbiter's Grimoire in the Vault.
Rolling hills became stony mountains down below. He followed the general path of a winding road above Penrith—shooting through the low clouds—and what he recognised as the Lake District.
After another ninety minutes or so, the Irish Sea came into view off the western shoreline of the country—a fleeting thought that he would have to cross the sea was quickly dispelled as the compass shone ever brighter, the needle straining at the bit down into a large town resting on the coast.
Harry cast a notice-me-not charm on the broom and a disillusionment charms on himself as he descended between the grey terraced houses of a Muggle street. The compass took him across the road and he landed unobserved behind the dumpsters out the back of what looked like a secondary school.
After removing the compass, he stashed the Firebolt under the large bin, pulled off his robes, stuffed them into his satchel, and followed the railed fence around the school down the street. He stuck to the sidewalk, and took the turn around the multi-storey red-bricked building every time he came to a corner. The needle swung back towards the building whenever he switched directions.
That settled it. The blood on the note—his Dragonfly Queen—was in a Muggle comprehensive school. Interesting, he thought, or confusing.
Harry rounded the front of the school and found a busy road. Dozens of Muggles were milling about the entrance—parents, carers, most likely—their cars parked up against the pavement. Across the road was a full car park, alongside a lake surrounded by tall oak trees.
It was coming up for three in the afternoon. Home time. Harry knew little about the Muggle education system, but state schools usually got out mid-afternoon, if memory served.
He took a seat on a low brick wall, compass in hand, and watched the entrance. The needle pointed straight up across the field before the school and into the old building.
Ten minutes later, a shrill siren cut through the air and all the Muggles standing around stood up a little straighter, some of them heading back to their cars to start the engines. Harry eyed the school, and watched as about a thousand kids spilled out of the building within the space of about five minutes.
Some of them darted off to the bike shed alongside a set of tennis courts. Most of them shot down the path between the grass and into the street—diving into cars or, in the most case, running off down the street in laughing, giggling packs.
Despite being the right age, Harry didn't fit in with any of the other kids in his jeans and polo shirt. They were all dressed in uniform—black trousers or skirts, knee high socks on the girls, and green cardigans with the school emblem on the left pocket. Parkview Secondary, it read. Harry filed that away.
The needle didn't veer off behind the school or grow any dimmer, so he kept his eye on the main entrance, as the crowds of kids grew thinner. After another five or so minutes he was rewarded with a twist in the compass when a group of girls emerged onto the street.
They walked right by him—three young girls, about thirteen or fourteen, he'd have guessed—two brunettes and a blonde. The point of the compass followed them sure and true.
"She's such a bitch," the blonde said. "Tom Garrity asked me to the pictures and she said I was too young to be fucking around with boys."
Harry frowned and let them move on a bit before he stood up and followed. He stayed a clear distance as they moved away from the school, heading across the road and down an alleyway between rows of identical townhouses.
Clear of the school, the blonde (who Harry identified as the leader of this little group) lit up a cigarette and took a long, confident puff on the stick before passing it to the other two.
"You want you can tell her you're staying at my house on Friday," one of the brunettes said, just on the edge of Harry's hearing. "Tom's so fit. You should be fucking around with him."
The girls all descended into nervous laughter. Harry muttered under his breath as he followed, and found out a lot more about Tom than was comfortable. Do the girls at Hogwarts talk like this? he wondered. Of course they did, just not around the boys.
His thoughts took him back to Hermione Granger. No, she wasn't as crass with language as these three seemed to be. It didn't matter. The blood from his mysterious note had come from one of the three girls—however improbable that seemed—and he had to find out the how and the why of it.
A few streets over and the two brunettes peeled away from the blonde, making plans to meet each other before school tomorrow and buy some more cigarettes off Carol Hay, who was also a bitch but at least her boyfriend worked at Asda so he could swipe fags off the delivery truck, but everyone knew it was only because Carol went down on him behind the Spray'n'Wipe that he even bothered with her—
Harry resolved to memory charm himself and purge most of their conversation from his mind as soon as he returned to Hogwarts.
The needle stayed with the blonde.
Alone, she took off at a swifter pace and Harry increased his step to keep up. He followed along the other side of the street, so as not to spook her. When they came to a road named Hawcourt Lane the girl kicked open a garden gate on rusty hinges, jogged up the side of a terraced house with a rock garden, and let herself in through a dark blue front door.
Harry grunted and tapped his chin thoughtfully. The needle pointed up as the girl climbed to the second floor inside the house and then pointed to the room on the left.
Now what? This was all frustratingly normal. Had he wasted an afternoon?
After a moment's deliberation, Harry retrieved his invisibility cloak from his bag and slung it over his head. He crossed the road, leapt over the low fence and approached the front door.
He listened for a moment and then tried the handle. The door opened upon an empty hallway. He slipped in quickly, taking note of his surroundings and gripping his wand under the cloak.
He saw a kitchen at the end of the hallway. The living room off to his left was sparse and empty—a few old chairs and a television that wouldn't have been new ten years ago. There were a whole bunch of kid's toys scattered along the carpet. Stuffed animals, plastic blocks, and the like…
The girl had left her shoes and school bag at the bottom of the stairs, under a vacant coat rack. There was some shuffling coming from the kitchen, and the sound of a baby's laughter. The blood compass pointed him upstairs…
In the kitchen he found a young woman and a baby girl. Both with heads of curly blonde hair. The woman was young, and staring into a bare refrigerator. She held a striking resemblance to the girl Harry had followed home. Her mother? No, far too young—she couldn't have been more than twenty.
"I was sure we had a jar in here somewhere, Abby," the woman said. The baby—Abby—gurgled in reply. "Yes, I thought so, too."
Harry stood, invisible, on the other side of the kitchen table and watched the pair thoughtfully. The baby crawling along the faded linoleum, and the woman pushing a strand of her hair back behind her ear fussily. She bit her lip, gazing into the fridge. Everything in the house, from the old television to the sagging furniture, from the empty fridge to the meagre kitchen suggested a level of poverty.
"Nothing for it, I guess. We'll just have to go to the shop. Shop-shop, Abby?"
The baby bounced happily. "'op, 'op!"
"Let's go get Grace then." The woman scooped up the baby and bustled out of the kitchen.
The baby looked right at Harry as they moved into the hallway. He paused, checked to see if the cloak still covered him completely—it did—and then followed.
The woman stopped at the base of the stairs. "Grace, I'm heading to the Co-op. Come and help me carry."
Grace, Harry thought. The blood on his note had come from Grace.
"I'm busy, Maggie!" Grace called down from above.
Maggie.
"Well, then you have to watch Abby while I'm—"
"Alright, I'm coming." Grace said, with a sigh that suggested long suffering. "Just let me get changed out of my uniform."
Under the cloak, Harry followed Maggie back into the kitchen. She strapped a papoose baby carrier to her chest and slipped Abby into the seat. Again, the baby's eyes seemed to follow him around the room, pointing and giggling. As impossible as it was, the kid could see through his cloak.
Harry placed that on his mental list of things to investigate—a list half a mile long and only getting longer.
Grace came thumping down the stairs in heavy black boots, torn stockings, a short skirt and a tight white shirt. An outfit that screamed 'Pay attention to me!' Harry thought. Maggie took one look and rolled her eyes. Probably an older sister, perhaps, given the resemblance—and they headed out the door, locking it behind them.
Left alone in the house, Harry felt a touch uncomfortable—like an intruder. I suppose I am, he decided, but what to do about it now? He could follow the three, or he could have a look around.
After half a minute's thought, Harry cast a few diagnostic charms—searching for any signs of magic, anything at all, and came up short. As far as he could tell, there wasn't a single magical ward, charm or artefact nearby. There was no reason to stay here.
It was all so… Muggle. How did this interact with his world, with Hogwarts, at all?
He headed back out onto the street, caught sight of the three girls down the road, and took off after them. He removed his cloak and followed at a discreet distance.
They went into a corner shop.
Harry stood with his hands in his pockets out the front of the shop, debating with himself. It was probably time to go back to Hogwarts—but he had learnt nothing of use. He stared at the headlines of the newspapers lining the window, caught in thought.
"Oh why not…" he muttered, and removed the disillusionment charm from himself and headed into the shop.
A smell of produce and cold meats met him inside the stuffy shop. He found the girls at the counter. Baby Abby was reaching for the stand of bright chewing gum packets, while Grace looked on in relative boredom, flipping through a magazine. Maggie was fumbling through her purse, a few spots of colour high in her cheeks.
"You got the money or not, love?" the shopkeeper said. An obese, sweaty man sitting on a swivel chair, he carried the remnants of what looked like a rather large lunch on his shirt.
"I know I had more than this," Maggie said, digging around her handbag for change.
"Haven't got all day, sweetheart. You can have the baby food or the milk—not both."
Harry didn't linger in the doorway. He moved across the shop, picking up a bag of sweets from the display next to the Coke fridge.
Reaching into his satchel, Harry had to burrow around for what he was looking for. Always be prepared was a maxim he had taken to heart many years ago, but since then he had never had a real need for… Ah, found it. He stepped up to the counter and met Maggie's gaze.
"Excuse me," he said, holding out a crisp twenty-pound note. "I think you dropped this outside."
Maggie eyed him warily, and in the space of a few seconds conflicting emotions of pride, uncertain resentment and something that may have been grateful joy flowed across her face. She looked from Harry, to the money, to the baby food on the counter, then back to Harry.
Maggie reached out, brushed his fingertips with her own, and took the banknote. "Thank you," she said slowly, and then, with genuine relief, "Oh yes, thank you. Please let me get those sweets for you."
Harry nodded. The baby strapped to Maggie's chest giggled when he ran a hand back through his messy, untenable hair. He poked his tongue out at the little bugger, eliciting a snort of laughter from Grace.
"Get a haircut," she told him. "Actually, that mop seems to suit you."
"Grace," Maggie snapped. "Shut up."
Harry left the shop, sucking on a strawberry bon bon, confused and a touch weary. It was a long flight back to Hogwarts, and he had discovered nothing useful—at least, nothing apparently useful. Maggie's smile when he handed her the money had made him feel good.
This needed some thought—had the Dragonfly Queen, whoever or whatever she was, just sent him running around in circles? Acquired the blood of some random Muggle girl just to mess with his head?
There was no logic to that. None he could see.
No matter. Best to be back at Hogwarts for dinner, lest his absence raise unwanted scrutiny from Dumbledore or the Ministry's lackey, Dolores Umbridge.
It was a quick walk back across the estate to Parkview Secondary. Harry retrieved his Firebolt from under the dumpster behind the school and took to the skies.
This had probably been a complete waste of time—time he could not afford to lose.
Hermione kept an eye on the Ravenclaw table at dinner, looking for Harry Potter. The food had appeared a half hour ago, but Harry was nowhere to be found.
She knew he didn't always mingle with his fellow students, but most nights she could recall seeing him on the rare occasion she had looked. Actually, come to think of it, she couldn't remember seeing him at all most of last year. Except when the champions were chosen for the Tournament, and his name had been so unexpectedly called forth and fourth from the Goblet of Fire.
She'd have sworn the look on his face that night hadn't been embarrassment, or uncertainty, but blind anger.
As if her thoughts had summoned him, Harry Potter strolled into the Great Hall—his dark green satchel slung low over his left shoulder. His hair was even messier than usual, as if he'd just gotten off a broomstick.
He took a seat at the far end of the Ravenclaw table, alone, and made no effort to converse with his housemates. He helped himself to a plate of chicken and potatoes, chewing thoughtfully and staring ahead at nothing in particular.
"So he didn't go for it?" Neville asked, on her right, nodding toward Harry.
Hermione realised she had been staring. She blinked, cleared her throat and resumed her meal. "I never got around to asking him, actually. He distracted me with… an interesting story. A riddle."
Ron snorted from across the table. "He knew your weakness was words, huh?"
"Hush, Ronald," Hermione said absently, thinking again on that strange note. It made no real sense, but something kept clicking in the back of her mind. An unfound door…
"Well, I still think we should practice on our own," Neville said. He poured a fair helping of gravy over his roast beef. "One of the old Charms rooms should do."
"Yes, but what about everyone else? The entire school's suffering because of that witch." Hermione glared up at Umbridge at the head table, then quickly looked away before she was noticed. "That's why we need…" She was mindful of all the ears around her. "Why we need what we need."
Ron had lost interest and was guffawing at something in the Quidditch magazine he and Seamus had split between them, splattered now with mashed potato and flecks of their dinner. Hermione turned to Neville.
"I think you should approach him, as well."
"Me?" Neville swallowed.
"You were his partner in Herbology a few years ago."
"We barely said two words to each other. He knew what he was doing, and when he didn't, he just watched me."
"Still." A plan was forming in Hermione's mind. "I'll speak to him about it first, and then you speak to him… I think he's a decent person—and if he's as clever as you say, he'll want to ensure his education is as complete as it can be, as well."
Neville looked like he was about to argue, then thought better of it and returned to his beef.
Satisfied, Hermione cast her gaze up to the enchanted ceiling, speckled with starlight and floating candles, and then surreptitiously across to Harry at the Ravenclaw table again.
He snatched a piece of food out of the air with his free hand—and was scrawling notes along a scroll of fine parchment with the other.
As Hermione watched, another piece of what looked like chocolate biscuit floated down the table towards him. He plucked it out of the air and ate this piece, too. Shortly after, a third piece arrived.
Hermione followed the biscuit back to its source, and found that odd Lovegood girl—her first name escaped her—sitting about halfway down the table. She was wearing an absurdly shaped pink hat, her dirty-blonde hair tied up in strings around the bonnet so it was impossible to tell where hat became hair and vice versa.
While not as alone a Harry, she still seemed to have been given a wide berth at the table. If it bothered her—Luna, her name was Luna—she didn't let it show. Luna levitated a handful of biscuit pieces in a slow circle, and every ten seconds or so would send one down the table to Harry Potter.
It had the look of an old routine. Luna levitated pieces of chocolate biscuit down the table and Harry plucked them out of the air, eating them as he scratched quickly across the page with his quill. They never looked at one another—it was oddly perplexing, and the closest Hermione had seen to any of the students interacting with Harry this year, save for her that afternoon.
How odd, Hermione thought, and returned to her dinner and her plans.
When she looked up again, Harry Potter was gone and Luna Lovegood was giggling at a stack of Yorkshire puddings.
As the school filed out of the Great Hall following Headmaster Dumbledore's brief announcements, Hermione found herself again casting a quick look at Neville and Ron—a hurried promise she'd be up to the common room soon—and then took off through the castle, straining her neck above the crowds of students for Luna's… interesting… pink hat.
She found the fourth-year Ravenclaw girl waiting at the bottom of an empty staircase. Hermione noticed that she wasn't wearing shoes— her feet were bare save for one sock on her right foot.
"Hi, its Luna, isn't it?"
Her features were so pale, so distracted, save for two large eyes, that Hermione thought Luna hadn't heard her. "My name's Hermione. I'm in Gryffin—"
"Have you seen all the dragonflies, Hermione?" Luna asked. "They're everywhere this time of year." She walked slowly up the stairs; making sure both her feet touched each step before progressing to the next one.
Hermione decided to follow her, despite how strange she found the girl. "I wanted to talk to you about Harry Potter."
"Such a lonely boy," Luna said. Her bare feet made no sound on the cool stones of the staircase. "Foolish and lonely—he thinks he's broken, you know, but he's not. He's the only one of us who isn't."
"Harry Potter, yes—"
"You want to know his secrets?" Luna asked. Her protuberant eyes gave her a permanently surprised look. "He has so many…" She trailed away, staring at a portrait of a single white rose on an otherwise barren plateau. "More than seven, if you can believe that."
"Are you his friend, Luna?"
Luna blinked, seemed to remember that Hermione was there, and smiled. "In the mad rush for something beautiful," she said. "Like a hot road after rain, or the smell of freshly cut grass."
Apparently satisfied with that, Luna gave Hermione a quick hug, before drifting away up the staircase toward Ravenclaw Tower on the west side of the castle.
Hermione would have called that her strangest encounter of the day, if not for her discussion with Harry that afternoon.
Both conversations had been strangely taxing. She was tired. Deciding to try again tomorrow, Hermione walked back to her dorm room and went to bed early. She was certain of only one thing, as she drifted off to sleep.
The day had shown her that there was far more going on at Hogwarts than she realised.
As Hermione's day was coming to an end, Harry's night was just beginning.
After a brief—yet always satisfying—dinner in the Great Hall, he made his way back up Hogwarts Castle. Heading into the north wing, he took a shortcut through the Transfiguration department and across the cloistered courtyard in the heart of the castle. The Vault wasn't far from the Great Hall, but the only real path to it required a roundabout trip to the seventh floor and out over the roofs.
At least the sun had set.
Crossing the grass square, Harry jumped along the massive, tangled roots of the great oak tree that had been growing there for centuries. He swept passed the brass and crystal armillary sphere in the centre of the courtyard, depicting and reflecting the celestial heavens overhead.
"In a hurry to be somewhere, Harry?"
Harry stopped and almost went for his wand before he recognised the voice. It wasn't often someone managed to slip by his notice. He turned and greeted the woman hidden in the safe shadows next to the armillary sphere.
"Healer Tenbrook—good evening."
"Call me Sarah, Harry, please." The mediwitch stepped into the flickering torchlight scattered across the courtyard from the castle walls. "You missed our appointment this afternoon."
"I did, yes. Please forgive me." He had completely forgotten about it. "Something pressing arose."
A small smile played about Healer Tenbrook's rose-red lips. She leaned against the sphere, her light blue robes almost purple in the half-light. "As it so often does when we have an appointment, hmm?"
Harry couldn't afford to linger. He had a different appointment to keep. One that, if missed, could land him in a world of trouble. "I know where your office is—I'll come by next week, seeing as how Dumbledore insists I speak with you."
"You've only managed to see me twice since the semester started. I'm here to help you, Harry—as a personal favour to the Headmaster, not the Ministry, if that puts you more at ease."
"It doesn't, but thanks." Harry stuffed his hands into his pockets, readjusting his satchel with a shrug of his shoulders. "You've been reading the Prophet then? What they're saying about me?"
Tenbrook nodded. "We can talk about that, as well. It's related to what happened with Cedric Diggory. I know you don't think I can help—"
"—or why Dumbledore thinks I need to speak to someone."
"You were there, Harry. You saw what happened—or what you believe happened. It was a traumatic experience, and talking about it will help."
Harry ran a hand back through his tangled hair and chuckled. "Oh, I agree. Yes, yes I do. But you don't quite believe me, do you? How can someone who doesn't even see the truth for, well, the truth, ever help me?"
"I don't know what to believe, honestly. I've made no secret of that. You and Headmaster Dumbledore claim a man—and not just any man, but the Dark Lord—has returned from the dead. The Ministry, our government, are calling you liars." She shook her head. "Despite that, I'm here so the students have someone to talk to about what happened at the end of last year. You need to talk to me, Harry."
Harry started to back away, slowly but surely. "He wasn't really dead, merely incorporeal—disembodied. A not-ghost, capable of possession and influence. And now he's back, Healer Tenbrook. Sorry—Sarah. Got to build that trust, don't we? But your kind words and counselling won't save any of us from what's to come. Goodnight."
With time to make up, Harry set a brisk pace up through the north wing of the castle, keeping an eye over his shoulder to make sure he wasn't being followed. Sarah Tenbrook meant well, he supposed, but she was out of her depth at Hogwarts this year.
Harry made a note to speak to Dumbledore about her—the counselling sessions may have worked for the other kids at this school, dealing with death for the first time in their lives, but Harry knew better.
Had to be better.
Reaching the seventh floor, he stepped out onto the balcony over the bailey courtyards, and shuffled up a stone drain gutter onto the roof. Back in his element, he made short work across the sturdy tiles to the hidden intersection between Gryffindor Tower and the Charms building that hid the Arbiter's Vault.
Proceeding through the curtain of charmed water, ridding him of any and all magical tracking spells—of which there were none—Harry stepped carefully through the main circular room of the Vault. It was dangerous enough during the day, with the various devices and artefacts that defied explanation, but at night…
It was like there was a pair of unseen eyes watching him.
Some of the artefacts that rested motionless in daylight rocked on their shelves, or tapped on the display glass within the cabinets… Even after three years, Harry had no idea why nightfall changed the atmosphere in the Vault.
He had been burnt once—never again—trying to stop a pyramid-shaped metal device from creeping across the floor to his comatose godfather. After that, he had levitated Sirius permanently above the floor, encased in his bubble of magic that kept his body alive.
Harry spared his godfather a brief glance. He had decided on this course of action in that regard some time ago, but he couldn't help the pang of illogical emotion that pulled at his heart when he thought of his father, down in Dover, still thinking his best friend a traitor and a murderer.
No, this was for the best. For now. It had to be.
Stepping into his laboratory that branched off from the main room, Harry sniffed the air and was rewarded with a strong scent of blueberry and, below it, harsh alcohol. His potion was ready.
All twelve cauldrons bubbled softly on low heat. He extinguished the flames and cast a few quick cooling charms on the liquid, to speed up the process. Levitating a six gallon barrel over to the table, he poured the cooled potion into the cask one cauldron at a time until it was near full to the brim.
Harry allowed himself a quick spoonful of the liquid—just a quick drop, to wake him up and keep him alert for the task ahead—and then sealed the barrel's lid in place and melted candle wax around the rim.
The potion had hit him all at once. A rush of clear, vibrant energy and shuddering strength. His mind clarified, and all the tasks of the day—jumbling around in his head—fell into neat order. He needed to investigate the bloody note some more, but not before he reset the lab for the next batch, but that required fresh ingredients. He had the weekend to complete his homework. The Umbridge problem needed a quicker resolution. As did the slander in the Prophet and the suspicion it cast upon him. There was only so many lines he was willing—
And so on. His thoughts running a mile a minute, Harry exited the Vault with the cask of blue potion floating just ahead of him. Back across the roof to the seventh floor, into the castle, and he threw his invisibility cloak over both himself and the barrel.
An unfound door… he thought, the riddle in the note playing on his mind. He knew there was some clue there. The Vault had been an unfound door, until very recently. One thing about the whole mess was certain—someone wanted to play. The thought made Harry grin.
Dinner had to be over, and most of the castle was relatively empty—the students having headed back to their respective dorms. It was an hour or so shy of curfew, but Harry had long since gotten the best of Argus Filch. He not only had his invisibility cloak, but also knew the routes the old squib took through the castle each night.
Harry entered Moaning Myrtle's bathroom on the second floor. The ghost was nowhere to be found, which was always useful. He approached the snake-engraved sink tap and murmured 'Open' in Parseltongue, granting himself access to the large, dark sliding pipe that led to the Chamber of Secrets.
As the way opened, memories whispered through Harry's mind. It's taken her, Professor. Memories of a time when he still trusted that adults knew what they were doing. His second year, and the girl who had written in a poisoned diary… Voldemort is my past, present, and future…
Memories of the life draining from Luna, beneath those terrible twisted pillars entwined with serpents. He shook his head, clearing the memories. There were worse since, and probably worse to come.
After several years of use by Harry, the pipe was still a slimy horrible mess. He put his cloak away into his satchel, and, after tucking the potion barrel tight against his chest, slid down the pipe, zipping by hundreds of other pipes on the way down.
"Need to find a better way of doing that," he muttered at the bottom, casting a few quick cleaning charms.
With a sigh of the long suffering, Harry again levitated his potion barrel and took off in near-darkness down the Corridor of Secrets. He wasn't entering the Chamber proper, however, and paused when he came upon the cave-in caused by that utter fool Gilderoy Lockhart. That memory was at least a pleasant one—the fraud hadn't thought a second year wizard capable of complex shield charms. Last Harry heard he was still in St. Mungo's.
Regaining his focus, Harry stepped up and over the rubble and into a deeper tunnel exposed in the aftermath of the rock fall.
The tunnel led down for about fifty feet, and Harry shone his wandlight ahead of him like a torch. He was sure of his footing, but there was always cause for concern—this place had collapsed once before. The sound of running water reached his ears. At the end of the tunnel he came to a protrusion of granite reaching out over a steadily flowing river, the water as dark as night.
Tied to the stone outcrop was a wooden boat. One of the very same that the First Years floated across the lake on during the Welcoming Feast. Harry had nicked it out of the boatshed after deciding this path didn't have to end at the water.
He levitated the barrel of potion into the boat, stepped in alongside it and sat down next to a bundled cloak. With a whispered incantation, the boat freed itself from the faux-dock and set off into the darkness, following a set path determined two years ago. The underground river flowed swift and true beneath the earth—flowing away from the castle and the lake and alongside the bordering mountains, to the very outskirts of the far side of the Forbidden Forest, as best he could tell.
Another secret of the castle—and one that would remain unfound if Harry had any say in the matter. Which he supposed he did. After all…
Only a Parseltongue could make it this far below the castle. The tunnel wasn't wide, just enough for a boy and his stolen boat, but it was useful.
After an hour of swift travel downstream, in pure darkness lost in his thoughts, Harry picked up the dark cloak off the seat next to him and shrugged it over his shoulders. He pulled the hood up over his head, concealing his face in an impenetrable magical darkness. Even in full daylight, it was impossible to see his features.
A few moments later, Harry emerged from a cave deep within the Forbidden Forest. He had to duck as the boat cleared the edge of the cave and out under the thick canopy of the forest, sailing along one of the many tributaries that bled off the lake back at Hogwarts.
This particular branch swept Harry towards the mountains and the outer border of the forest. The river widened, trickling through water just deep enough for his boat, and then ran under a massive fallen tree—creating a natural bridge shrouded in vines and gloomy moss over the water.
Just beyond the bridge, a thin shoreline covered in shiny river pebbles—and bathed in starlight—came into view. Waiting on the grassy forest floor next to the pebbled spit of earth was a man riding a magical carpet.
"You are late," the man said, also disguising his face, as Harry pulled his boat up against the shallows and hopped onto solid ground.
"It was unavoidable, Gus," Harry said, almost growled. He added a depth to his voice, a Scottish lilt, to avoid any possible identification. "Here we are."
Gus levitated the barrel of blue potion onto his carpet and retrieved a brown leather pouch from within his robes. Harry knew, as he had been doing this for a better part of a year now, that the pouch held more than a handful of coins. It was like his satchel—charmed to be bigger on the inside.
"Thirty-five hundred galleons, as agreed."
Harry tucked the pouch inside his robes, not bothering to count it. Given how quickly and how well his potion sold—more and more so every month—he knew Gus wouldn't dare short-change him. He was the only person in the world with the knowledge to brew it, after all.
It was a warm night, and pleasant by the river, but this was not a place either wizard wanted to linger. Their transaction complete in as fewer words as possible, Harry stepped back into his boat on the pebbled shore and drew his wand to propel himself back up river.
"I have a message from my employer," Gus said, before he could depart.
Harry had been expecting that. "Let me guess… another increase in production?"
"Two barrels a fortnight. Double it."
Making some quick calculations—and how quickly he could source a dozen new platinum cauldrons, not to mention the other rare ingredients—Harry nodded. It would mean a trip to the Floating Markets before month's end, but it could be done.
"Two barrels," he said. "Six gallons. Forty-eight pints. Or twenty-seven litres, in the modern value. You're selling it at ten galleons per quarter fluid ounce, are you not?"
Gus grunted, but said nothing. He was smart enough to know where this was heading.
"Yes, I know you are. Now let's see, two barrel's worth at ten galleons per quarter-ounce vial… Wow, that's just a little under forty thousand galleons per shipment. And here I am with barely enough to afford the peppercorn sauce on my steak."
Gus sat down on his carpet and rose a few feet off the forest floor, one arm resting on his new barrel of special liquid. "I am authorised to offer you a one-time payment of one hundred and fifty thousands galleons for your recipe."
"No, I think not."
Gus was silent for a long moment. Harry could almost feel him twirling his wand, wondering if a quick pain curse could change his mind. The moment passed. "Name your price."
"Ten thousand per shipment."
"Eight."
"Ten."
"We will agree to ten, but should delivery be more than six hours late a penalty of five thousand galleons will be enforced. Agreed?"
Harry could respect that. The proper business sense—mind over wand—and a mutual respect for the venture almost let him enjoy the whole affair. "We are agreed."
Hermione poured some ketchup onto her bacon and scrambled eggs and mashed it all together with a healthy dose of salt and pepper. If there was one thing that could be said for the long, winding corridors of Hogwarts—and the endless stairs—it did allow one to indulge at mealtimes.
She sat next to Neville as the rest of the students ambled slowly down (or up, for the Slytherins) to breakfast. It was just gone nine, but for a Saturday there was no rush. Neville was talking about one of the animated rose vines he was growing as part of a term-long project in Herbology.
"And Madam Sprout thinks there'd be a market for them in Hogsmeade over Christmas—"
Hermione was only giving him half her attention. The rest was focused on the copy of the Weekend Prophet delivered five minutes ago. It was a few extra knuts for the weekend subscription, but with the Ministry interfering in the castle, she thought it prudent to stay apprised of all the happenings in the Wizarding World.
There were one or two interesting articles. Front-page news was concerned with the Ministry's reforms to several departments, and a side story about some unknown potion that had put three people in St. Mungo's during the week. A second page piece about the need for increased academic integrity here at Hogwarts, and an interesting story innocuously tucked away at the top of page three:
DID THE TRIWIZARD CHAMPION CHEAT?
It was about Harry Potter, of course.
An opinion piece that had been given a half-page spread, as if it were fact. A picture of Harry accompanied the article. He looked surly and tired after the second task near the lake last year. The article suggested that he had been given expert help in the tournament from the teaching staff, as well as a favourable standing from one of the judges. Unnamed sources in the castle confirmed it.
Surely not, Hermione thought. She had watched Harry face a dragon in the first task, her heart in her throat the whole time. He had done that on his own, no matter what anyone said.
This wasn't the first article in the Prophet she had seen slighting Harry—and if he stuck to his story about You Know Who and what he said happened to Cedric Diggory—it most likely would not be the last.
Hermione glanced over at the Ravenclaw table. Harry was there now, looking as if he hadn't slept with big dark bags under his eyes, slowly sorting through a rather large stack of owl post.
He must have sensed her gaze, because he looked over. Hermione almost looked away, but offered him a quick wave and a warm smile instead. He tilted his head, grinned, and returned to his breakfast and post.
Now that won't do, she thought.
"—rather simple, really. A mix of transfiguration and ancient runes to—"
"I'll be back in a moment, Nev."
Neville blinked and looked up from his breakfast. "Oh, okay."
Hermione stood up and, against all unspoken House conventions, made her way over to the Ravenclaw table and sat down opposite Harry. She slid the paper across to him, sliding it between a glass of orange juice and a grapefruit.
"There's a story in here about you."
"Only one? Sorry, bit of a slow week."
"Page three."
Harry flipped open the paper and glanced at his picture. "Hmph." He returned to his cornflakes.
Her initial topic of conversation exhausted with a grunt, Hermione searched for something else, anything else, to get him to ta—
"Did you find out anything about that strange note?"
"'fraid not."
"You're not very talkative this morning, are you?"
Harry sighed and dropped his spoon into the bowl. "Sorry. Bit of a late night."
"Up late studying?"
"Sure. That works." He swept all his unopened post into his green satchel.
Hermione wondered if he ever took that bag off. He always had it slung across his chest. It looked old and worn, battered down, but serviceable. She was going to ask him about it, but he spoke up first.
"Why the sudden interest, Miss Granger?"
"Pardon me?"
"In me, I mean. Yesterday you provoked that confrontation with Umbridge, this morning you're bringing me news stories full of lies. Is detention not enough for you? You have to remind me about all the bad press I'm getting, too?"
"I—" Hermione blushed. "I didn't—"
"I'm joking, of course." Harry frowned. "Never was much good at that. No matter." He checked his watch. "Want to see something cool?"
"I, well… yes?"
"Come on then." He stood up and left, sweeping out of the Great Hall before Hermione could stop him or even ask where he wanted to go.
Should I follow? She had still not asked him about the defence club.
Hermione hesitated, biting her lip in indecision. Glancing around the Great Hall, she saw nothing holding her back. Her gaze was drawn up the head table, and she felt Headmaster Dumbledore lock eyes with her.
She couldn't be sure, because of his rather impressive silver beard, but she thought he may have smiled and inclined his head ever so slightly toward the doors and after Harry. Never one to disobey a teacher, Hermione swung her legs up and over the bench and took off after Harry Potter.
She found him waiting at the foot of the grand moving staircase, a curious look on his face. As if he hadn't really expected her to follow.
"We've got ten minutes to get to the other side of the castle. Let's be quick about it."
"Why ten minutes?" Hermione asked, as she fell into stride beside him, almost dashing to keep up with his long, sure gait.
"I don't know."
"Oh."
"You'll see what I mean."
Harry's step was quick through the castle, diving in and out of classrooms and cutting across courtyards and taking shortcuts that shaved off entire floors and staircases, but there was something more than that.
He strode the castle as if he owned it. As if he'd lived here a century and knew the shortest path between any two points, even if the rooms and stairs did move sporadically, and what was once a sure thing on a Monday may not be there on a Tuesday.
Skirting the staff quarters, Harry led Hermione into the heart of the castle, back on the ground floor. He pushed open an old shabby door that creaked on dusty hinges, and stepped into a disused classroom shaped like a triangle.
Three walls, only one door, and a window overlooking the lower grounds and the groundskeepers cabin in the distance, just beyond the greenhouses.
"Are we here for the view?" Hermione quipped.
Harry said nothing. He wiped off an overturned chair on top of a desk and placed it up the front of the room, next to another that looked recently used—no dust—and sat down.
Bemused more than anything else, Hermione joined him.
"I've got twenty eight minutes past nine. How about you?"
"About that, yes."
Harry was tapping his foot against the stone floor, staring straight ahead at the tip of the angled walls, where they seamlessly joined to complete the isosceles-shaped room. "We made good time. Eight minutes from the Great Hall to here. Not the record, but close, I'm sure."
"What are we doing here?"
"Are you wondering if it was a good idea to follow someone you barely know into an empty and disused part of the castle?"
Hermione blinked. "Well, no, I wasn't."
He scoffed. "That's because you think you're safe at Hogwarts. That despite three-headed dogs, possessed or incompetent professors, mammoth snakes, soul-sucking demons, dragons, ghouls and impossible shadows… you're still just at school."
Hermione tried to make sense of that. "No, I know it can be dangerous around magic," she said.
"So you must trust me then." Harry winked. "That's brave of you. I'm mad and deranged remember. Seeing Dark Lords in every shadow, Death Eaters in my cereal bowl…"
Searching again for something to say, some way to steer the conversation towards her defence club idea and the need for proper study, Hermione decided to just get it over with. "Harry, I wanted to ask you—"
The wall they were staring at—the tip of the triangle—sprouted a door covered in thick vines of ivy and blossoming purple flowers. The arched wooden panels below the foliage grew into the wall. The heady scent of honeysuckle and vanilla wafted into the room from beyond the new door.
Hermione gasped. "Oh my, what's this?"
"What I wanted to show you," Harry said, standing up. "For whatever reason, this door only pops into existence at nine thirty in the morning. Come along, Miss Granger. It disappears again in exactly fifteen minutes."
Feeling a rush of excitement, Hermione joined Harry at the flowery door and watched as he grasped a large, rusted brass handle and pulled it open.
The aroma that had been gentle and sweet hit her in the face—almost overpowering—and together she and Harry stepped into one of the most amazing gardens she had ever seen.
"Hogwarts' secret garden," Harry said, sweeping an arm across the expanse before them.
Hermione fell into an almost dumbfounded respect as she and Harry strolled through the creeping hanging vines, the curtains of cherry blossom branches, and the carpet of knee high flowers.
The garden was about forty feet across its length and breadth. There were cast iron benches overgrown with plant life. A thick canopy formed a green tunnel through to the heart of the courtyard. The castle walls rose up on all sides, enclosing the space.
"Oh wow," Hermione said, as they emerged from the tunnel of leaves. She could taste lilac and cinnamon on the air.
There was a large square boulder in the very middle of the garden. Lichen and moss clung to its base, and thick dark green vines circled its border. A lattice network of climbers formed loose loops and curled contours against the stone.
Hundreds, probably thousands, of names marked the monolithic stone. Scrawled hastily, and with care, burnt into the rock with magic or just with ink that had nearly faded. Names jumped out as Hermione gazed across the garden's centrepiece—none of them familiar.
Frances Hodgson Burnett, 1863… Burdock Muldoon, 1440… Havelock Sweeting, 1648…
"You don't recognise any of the names?" Harry chuckled. "Even you struggle to pay attention in History of Magic, huh? Here, look. As far as I can tell—students have been scratching their name into this thing since Hogwarts was founded."
Harry ran his fingers along the curving, looped letters that spelt Glanmore Peakes, 1680. "He slew a giant sea serpent in Cromer. And here, Oswald Beamish—pioneer for goblin rights. Tilly Toke saved a beach full of Muggles from a dragon attack. Nathan Allgood, invented the floo network. The network, mind you, not the powder. Heh, and Bertie Bott—yeah, the flavoured beans."
"Fascinating," Hermione said, and meant it. "Who else?"
Harry moved down the stone, his smile fading into something… else. "Here. Yardley Pratt, the infamous serial murderer. He killed eighty-seven goblins before he was stopped. Single-handedly instigated the Third Goblin Rebellion in the fifteenth century. Or here, look… Thadius Thurkell, fathered seven sons, all of them squibs. He turned them into hedgehogs and fed them to a hippogriff. Marcus Grimes, the 'Mad Minister'. Responsible for the deaths of hundreds. Ah, and here's a good one…"
Hermione felt her blood run cold. "Does that say Mo—?"
"Morgan le Fay, yes." Harry didn't touch that one.
For every name Hermione knew, there were hundreds she didn't. Harry followed patiently in her wake as she explored around the stone, running her hand along words written long ago by wizards and witches long dead.
Around the far side of the immense stone, there was a patch of bare rock—devoid of any names. The scribbles and scrawls petered out. There was Horace Slughorn, 1870, and a finger's width beyond that, Tom Marvolo Riddle, 1937.
In the space above that name, there was one more: Harry Potter, 1992.
An almost irresistible urge overcame Hermione in that moment. She stepped forward, and nevertheless hesitated.
"Go ahead—why not? But be quick, we've only four minutes left." Harry smiled. "Make a mark on the world, Hermione Granger. It could mean something one day."
"I don't know about that," she said, but drew her wand just the same.
"No one does. But what if you go on to invent something useful, or rediscover portal travel." Harry sighed. "Or cure something like the Dementor's Kiss. Something—anything—to make a mark."
And with the sun beating down overhead, the scent of honeysuckle and vanilla fresh and wild in her nose and on her tongue, Hermione carved her name into the stone with a quick charm. She chose a spot next to Harry, but away from whomever Tom Riddle was, and felt better for doing so.
"How can no one know about this?" she said, glancing up at the towering castle walls. Beyond the rim of the secret garden's far wall, she could glimpse the swaying flags on the roof of Gryffindor tower. "Can't it be seen from the upper levels?"
"You'd think so, but no. Hogwarts isn't built like that, Hermione. It's… well, magic. Secrets wrap themselves in secrets and no one bothers to delve much deeper than the dungeons."
"But there's more?"
"Oh yes. A whole lot more. Come on, we have to leave now or we'll be stuck here for the next twenty three hours and forty five minutes. Believe me, there's not a whole lot to do."