Chapter Two: Mother
The first time he saw her, he was in the library (a fairly common occurrence), studying a hazy grey tome that breathed age. He couldn't recognise any of the symbols on the page, which seemed to be good enough for his subconscious; it made no effort to distort them further. Dream-Harry understood them well enough; the overlap of their identities would have let him know if there were any confusion as to what the markings meant, the way they warned him of the latent frustration building beneath the surface.
A woman came gliding into the library as he worked, unseen, unnoticed by him, until something (who knew what?) caught his attention. Perhaps she made some small noise. But by the time she was approaching him, he had already set aside his book, as if bracing himself.
She was a woman who stuck in Harry's mind, would have if only for the fact that she alone amongst all of the grey people was colourful and vibrantly alive. She was quite beautiful, with long blonde hair pulled back behind her, and a very old-fashioned, bright blue dress that matched her eyes. She had a regal bearing, and moved with quiet grace—the illusion of frailty, delicate and graceful. When she spoke, he heard her voice, and could understand the words.
"Does something ail you, my son?" she asked, amusement laced in her tone. Waking-Harry would later be relieved to find that her voice sounded, for once, like that of an actual person. She had a very soothing voice, Waking-Harry would later reflect.
Unlike Dream-Harry, when he made his brief response. The woman (the boy's mother, Dream-Harry's mother: imagine that!) laughed, and came to stand before him.
"Well, in such an old book as this, I am not surprised. Perhaps I might help you, instead. Your father and I both know a little about magic, and while it is different for every individual, I might provide some guidance, at least."
Longing and suspicion. Uncertainty. The boy's response was cautious, as if treading on thin ice.
She laughed again. "It is true that he is...disappointed, somewhat, that you do not progress as swiftly as he would like. I think he forgets how it is, to be young, sometimes."
The boy smiled, at this, but made no answer. "He would not begrudge you such learning, if I were to teach you. We all have different areas of strength and weakness. I think I might enjoy playing the role of the teacher—if you would permit your tiresome mother to intrude in your research, thus."
Distress. He made a hasty protest. Harry would have done no different, in his shoes.
The woman sat down on the other side of the desk, and smiled at him, a smile full of exasperated fondness, that lingered with Harry into wakefulness. Had anyone ever looked at him that way? At Harry? But for now, he was engrossed in the dream, as Dream-Harry's mother gently pushed aside some of the books he had pulled from the shelves, clearing room, and making it easier for them to see one another.
"I have it on good authority that you have caused quite a bit of trouble, of late, setting carpets alight, and shattering heirlooms."
He hastened to interject a rousing defence on his own part, but she shook her head.
"Magic can be unpredictable, and is often tied to our moods," she said. "For those who have not yet learnt self-control, small accidents often occur, particularly in times of extreme negative emotion. Perhaps these accidents were caused by a certain...disappointment, at not finding what you sought for in the library, hmm?"
She smiled again, and leant back. "But they will do for a beginning of my instruction. And...well, I should say, first of all, that all Nine Realms are filled with ambient magic, as well as the magic in living things. Therefore, when we use magic, it can come of two different sources—from without, in the air, in the ground, and in artefacts—or from ourselves. There are some, such as your friend Heimdall, who can use magic through a conduit—the sword."
Harry did not understand the explanation when he awoke, but whilst still dreaming, he did, every word. He listened with rapt attention.
"Therefore, when using magic, it is always important first to know whether to use the ambient magic of the area, or to draw on your own magic. The latter will drain you more quickly—unless you have built up the stamina through much use. But the former also has its risks. Always know the nature of magic that is not a part of you, before you attempt to use it.
"For instance, have you felt the magic here in the palace? On the surface, as here in the library, it is filled with light and warmth. You have many associations here, with home. The magic of our world recognises you, and welcomes you to use its magic. To use the ambient magic of a world that rejected you would take greater effort and skill, and would still more the swiftly take its toll. Take a moment, now, to see if you agree with my description. What does the magic in this library evoke?"
He closed his eyes, obedient, appreciated the warmth and light streaming through the windows, the warmth of his mother's love, the age and wisdom contained within the walls. They were very like his mother, he decided—regal and proud, but still welcoming and wise.
While he was at it, he took a moment to sift through his memories of other places, categorising their different emotions. He'd felt it before, sometimes, but now he wanted to go through the whole palace, analysing every room.
He opened his eyes, and nodded. There was a certain sense of wonder and awe at the experience, a door opening into a new way of looking at the world. Was this the thrill others found in conquest? he asked himself. He could not help leaning forwards, slightly, before remembering proper posture. His mother laughed, and shook her head.
"Yes. I see that you understand. You feel it, as do I. And I suspect there is no need to tell you that different locations, and therefore different magics, lend themselves more readily to different works. Your father has filled the throne room with the warp and weft of destiny: power, raw, and therefore dangerous. And if you were to venture into the lower palace—where we have forbidden you to enter, with good reason—you would find that the air, the earth, the light there, is foul and corrupt. It invites in death and decay, and would drain away your energy faster than you could replenish it. To venture below with your own magical energy not yet developed would twist you into something unrecognisable, or even kill you."
He probably said something resentful at this point about knowing, Mum, and I haven't gone down there.
He'd never seen a lower palace in his wanderings. He wondered what she meant.
"And let that be a warning, also," she continued. "Do not trust the outward appearance of any world, for there are often hidden dangers in even the safest of places. Forgive your old mother for fretting over you thus, but you do seem to have a knack for finding trouble."
He grumbled something else in reply.
"The safest course of action is usually to use the magic within you, but that is not always safe, or feasible, either. Hone your ability to sense the souls of the places you visit, and ask yourself what manner of magic might most easily be performed there, and what hidden dangers it might hold."
She stood, now, with the same grace with which she did everything else, and he said something else, trying to hide his disappointment that she seemed to have concluded the lesson. She paused, at his protestations, and bent to face him squarely.
"The secret to magic is desire, and focus. This is always true. By performing small acts of magic, you will develop those magical reserves that you will need to sustain greater works of magic. It is best to start with small goals in mind. Overuse of magic will tire you. It is very draining, at first, to use even the simplest of spells. But we may begin now."
The dream ended there, to Harry's frustration. He was now quite curious about how you started using magic, and although it was addressed by Dream-Harry's mother in a later dream, he wished that he could have heard it in that one.
Instead, he spent quite a bit of time with his brother (getting into trouble, he suspected), his brother getting into fights, and being taught how to defend himself. Despite not being able to hear the drillmaster's words, he suspected that he was nonetheless beginning to gain a picture of how to hold a sword, how to fight with one, or at least defend himself. He almost thought that he could bring a kitchen knife to school for the next time the bullies that were his cousin and his friends decided to beat him up. That was, however, a very bad idea, as he decided soon after he woke up. Magic, though...
Nah. Magic wasn't real. He told himself that firmly, but he still remembered the regal woman's comments on small accidents caused by intense negative emotions. Many of the freakish things his relatives blamed him for occurred when he was angry, or fleeing Dudley's gang. Could it be magic?
He grew quite fond of the entire dream family, with an added dollop of wary respect for his father. Even faceless, he made an imposing figure, and filled Harry with a host of conflicting emotions—do you even love me? How do I prove myself? What do I do?
He was so austere, so remote. But there were times when he showed his approval, with a nod, a hand on the shoulder, even the occasional word of praise, that made Harry feel as if he were filled with some sort of buoyant luminescence.
This was what people meant, he decided, when they said that someone was glowing. It was this levity and pride. He had little occasion of it at the Dursleys, but here he had his mother's fond encouragements and proud smiles when he mastered something particularly difficult (the anachronic order of his dreams meant that he sometimes received lessons in the incorrect order, although for Dream-Harry, his life progressed linearly; thus, it didn't matter).
Of the three members of his family, he was fondest of his mother, and of course his brother. He sometimes trailed after the other boy, with something of a reverent adoration. Although his brother had other friends, he always seemed to be able to find time for Dream-Harry, if he needed help. Perhaps, as he had heard people complain while out with the Dursleys, that would change, they would grow apart when one of them hit their teens, and entered "that difficult stage". For now, Harry basked in their camaraderie.
There was a sense of safety, security, belonging, amongst these people, and Harry hugged it close to himself, wished to vanish forever into that dreamscape, where he was wanted, even if it wasn't he who was wanted. Where he was loved.
By the end of January, he had quite—what was the phrase?—quite fallen in love with the lot of them. Even the forbidding figure of Dream-Harry's father had a special place in Waking-Harry's heart. How could he not, when on his worst days, there was more of compassion and understanding about him than the Dursleys at their best?
He cherished these dreams, looked forward to them, held onto them as best he could, although often the substance of them slipped away as he entered the waking world. But even at noon, sitting alone with his lunch, he could still remember the vague forms of his dream-family, the radiant beauty of his dream-mother, her gentle, silent strength.
It was almost a disappointment, therefore, when on the night dividing January from February—on the night of January Thirty-First—he dreamt not of the palace, but of a quiet cabin in the heart of a woods.
His dream began with him standing outside a wooden door, hand poised to knock—or perhaps to reach for the knob and enter, or just to reach out and touch the coarse grain of the wood. He hesitated, and then reached for the knob. If he couldn't have the palace, he wanted to know what dire emergency had caused his subconscious to forego it. He thrust open the door with some violence, on account of what he would not admit to himself was hurt and disappointment.
He entered the little log cabin, which was bigger inside than out, and looked around at the wood-paneled walls, at the cosy-looking sofas and armchairs ranged around a low-set wooden coffee table, at the cupboards he could see hanging from the walls of the kitchen.
He moved towards the wooden stairs at the far side of the room (the house had not seemed big enough for a second storey, from the outside), but before he could gain half the distance, a form rushed him, and warm arms wrapped around him, murmuring something indecipherable over his shoulder. He flinched, and tried to pull away. Touch never boded well—not unless he were in the palace, being someone else.
The figure seemed to notice his distress, and withdrew, unfolding her arms, and standing back, that Harry might the better see her. She was much taller than he, being an adult, with long, fiery red hair, and bright green eyes. Something about that description gave him pause. Her eyes—they're just like mine, he thought, just the same shape and shade.
"My son," she whispered, kneeling down before him to put them at eye-level despite his shorter stature. "Oh, my beloved child. What have they done to you? What makes you shrink from your mother?"
He noticed tears in her eyes, and paused, reconsidered. He'd never seen a photograph, had no names to go by, had no way of knowing whether this woman was who she seemed to be claiming to be. But he wanted... The depth of his desire astounded him.
"Who are you?" he demanded, refusing to yield to hope, to longing, he fixed her with his best unreadable stare, and her eyes turned sad, and wistful.
"I am Lily Evans, the erstwhile wife of James Potter. I am your mother, Harry. Please..."
"M—Mum?" he asked, scarcely daring to believe it. Surely, it could not be. This was a trick, an illusion.
A dream. And anything might happen in dreams.
"Harry, my son, how can you not recognise your own mother?" she wiped tears from her eyes as they started to fill again. "When I knew that I could see you again—could be not completely absent from your life, though these be but dreams—I had not expected such a reunion. Harry, my son...why do you fear me?"
"I'm not afraid of you," Harry said, crossing his arms in defiance. She took a step forwards, and then another, and he forced himself not to draw back, not to retreat. This was his mother. He could trust her, if anyone. His mother. Or an illusion of her.
She gently wrapped her arms around him, again, and he flinched, but didn't draw away, this time. He hesitated, but then wrapped his arms around her, clinging to her as if she were the only thing standing between him and a bottomless pit.
They stayed that way for several minutes, as warmth that came only from his dreams permeated his entire being, and then she let him go, again, and stood. He stared at the hem of her bright green dress, unable to look her in the eyes. Never before had anyone shown Harry Potter such affection. Not in his memory.
A delicate hand appeared in his vision, and he looked up to see she had bent over to extend a hand to him.
"Walk with me. Tell me of your life these past nine years, my son. I have much to speak with you on, but that can wait. There are many secrets that I must keep from you, for only a few more months. But for tonight, walk with me. Tell me of your life. Tell me everything."
He looked up, amazed at the genuine warmth and care he could almost feel radiating from her in waves.
"Are you real?" he asked, and she laughed.
"Here, in the boundary between reality and delusion, does it matter? But I am realer than you might expect, my dearest child. Come with me. I will show you the gardens, and you will tell me of your life, and we will come to an understanding. Come."
"Why are you keeping secrets from me, then? Am I 'not old enough to know'?" he asked, bitterness leaking into the recitation of the familiar excuse.
"No," she said, and there was a pause, stretching out the power of that single word, its simplicity, before she continued. "In a few months, you will be introduced to James's world. It will be a pleasant surprise for you, and I would not take it from you, but also..." She sighed, and bowed her head. "There will always be those who will judge you, and appearances are very important; even in that world, there are politics to consider, and power games. I doubt you could muster the genuine shock you would need in your response, as if you truly had no knowledge of that world."
He was mollified, somewhat, despite the implication that he would not be able to fool...someone, into thinking his surprise was genuine. It seemed to imply a lack of skill, or of intelligence. But she had, at least, said that she was not keeping secrets on account of his age. His mind wandered to other mysteries.
"Where's Dad, then?"
"James could not be here," she said. "I feel certain he would have come, had he been able."
"And why did he not come?" asked Harry. "Why couldn't he be here, too?"
How very greedy of you, Harry, he told himself, but it stung, the thought that perhaps his father didn't care.
"James and I are very different, with very different abilities. A strong cord binds you and me together, stronger than merely the bond between mother and son, or rather, a strengthened version of that bond. When I died, I lived on in your blood. I will explain further, later. This will not be the last time we meet in your dreams."
Her hand was still outstretched toward him, showcasing an endless reserve of patience. Something about her reminded him of his other mother, and that made him feel safe in her presence. He took her hand, and she raised him to his feet, leading him to the far side of the room, past the stairs, to a little room beyond, where another door led back to outside.
For hours, they walked amongst the flowers and vegetables of Lily's garden, and at last, Harry, reassured by the lack of judgemental criticism when he told her of the small revenges he'd had on Dudley's gang, before fear had driven away that confidence, spilt his heart out, telling her about his treatment by the Dursleys, how Dudley always received the best gifts, and Harry made do with hand-me-downs and castoffs, donations for the needy. He watched as her face darkened with terrifying fury, and shrank back, cautious again.
"Ah, Petunia, how could you behave thus towards your flesh-and-blood?" she demanded of the empty sky, and he slowly realised that she was angry not with him, but for him. A crackling, vengeful warmth emanated from her, but he knew that it would not burn him.
"Mum?" he asked. She smiled at him. She had such a beautiful, sweet smile, and it was just for him. Another memory to cherish, to hug close.
"It is almost time for us to part, love. But, hold fast! You will see me again on the night of March Thirtieth. The magic that binds us together is strongest near times of transition. February has but twenty-eight days, when the magic requires at least thirty, but March is not only a month with thirty days, but it also holds the Vernal Equinox, the transition from winter to spring. Hold fast, my son! We shall meet again, then, and I shall tell you some things. Know that my love and protection are always with you."
Even as he reached for her, the world faded out around him, and he awoke to the darkness of his cupboard, hot tears streaming down his face. The machismo of the other dreams was too hard-engrained in him, by this point, for him to do anything but swipe at his eyes and look around as if to see whether anyone had noticed. But he was alone, of course, in the utter dark of his cupboard.