Through the Puddles of Time

Chapter 2

*Author's Note: Hi, guys! Thank you all so much for continuing to read my story! I'm so glad you guys seem to like it so far, and I have been so grateful to hear from you guys in all the nice reviews you've left! Sorry this took me a few days to get up here, it took a little tweaking before I was happy with it. Well, anyways, here's chapter two! I hope you enjoy it!*

Harry follows Neville down a long corridor, looking around curiously. They're in an old warehouse, clearly long since abandoned. The floor is a single slab of concrete, dappled with fragments of broken glass and chipped stone. Every few meters, metal columns stretch up towards the high ceiling, rising up to meet a lattice of steel beams. Rust creeps along the metal: a deep, copper fungus. It's dark. Long strands of electric lights stretch along the wall, but they aren't illuminated. Many of them don't even have bulbs. The only source of light in the entire room comes from small, luminous orbs, floating in the air like glowing bubbles. They shiver and bounce as Harry passes, disturbed by the air currents of his movements. Clearly not muggle creations like the rest of the building.

"This is really your headquarters?" Harry asks, frowning around at their stark surroundings. It certainly doesn't look like people live here. Everything is cold and uninviting, nothing but the skeletal remains of industry. A place for machines, not humans.

"For now at least," says Neville. "But we'll have to move soon. We can't stay in any one place for more than a few weeks or they might find us."

"They?" asks Harry. "You mean the Death Eaters?"

"Yeah," says Neville. "The Death Eaters. Or the Youngest Sons. We're actually in their territory now."

"The Youngest Sons?" Harry repeats, turning the phrase into a question. Hearing Harry's lack of recognition, Neville turns, glancing back at Harry over his shoulder. His round face is creased into a thoughtful frown.

"You mean you don't know who they are? Don't they exist there, too?" he asks. Now it's Harry's turn to frown.

"There. You keep saying 'there'. What do you mean? Where's there? Where's here for that matter?"

Neville just watches Harry pensively for a moment, then he shakes his head and continues on down the hallway towards a large grey door. Harry wants to run, wants to sprint over to Neville and grab him and shake him and make him tell him what the hell is going on, but instead he takes a deep breath, calming himself down a little.

"I'd better let her answer those questions for you," says Neville. Then he knocks on the door, leaning in to call through the wood: "I have him. Is it safe?" Neville turns his head, listening. He must hear some response Harry doesn't, because after a second he nods and pushes the door open.

"Head on in," says Neville to Harry, holding the door open for him. Harry gives Neville one last look, then crosses the threshold. Neville doesn't follow.

Harry steps into a long, narrow room. One wall is lined with huge floor to ceiling windows, segmented into neat squares of glass by metal frames. Some of the panels are broken. Their fragmented remains coat the floor, glittering occasionally in the room's dim light. Sitting in the middle of the room in a pair of floral purple armchairs are an elderly man and woman. Harry recognizes the man instantly. Piercing blue eyes look up at Harry from beneath bushy grey eyebrows, eyes Harry remembers seeing reflected in a shard of mirror. Eyes that had watched over him, even if they had done so reluctantly. Eyes so like their brother's. Aberforth Dumbledore. At his side is a petite woman, her white hair pulled back into a loose bun. Her face is clearly that of a once handsome woman, with prominent cheekbones and deep set eyes, but she looks ill. Her cheeks are sunken and gaunt, and her skin looks sallow. Her eyes seem so dark amongst such pale features, like black holes. She stares at Harry so intently, he feels he will be sucked into them.

"Mr. Potter," the woman says. "Before we begin, I need you to promise me that if at any time during this conversation I tell you to run, you will run out of this room immediately, without any hesitation. Do you hear me? No hesitation. I tell you to run and you run like your life depends upon it, because it will. Do you understand?"

It's a strange way to start a conversation. Certainly not the first words Harry had expected this sweet looking old woman to say to him. But he can see in her eyes that she means every word. Harry nods.

"Excellent," says the woman and a smile spreads over her face, creasing her pale features into a sea of fine lines. "Please, sit. I am Ariana Dumbledore, although I am sure our Neville has probably already told you that. And this is my brother, Aberforth." Ariana waves her hand, gesturing to the empty armchair across from her. Harry obligingly lowers himself into it. Probably better to sit, anyways. He still feels a bit nauseous, and this is all so strange. Harry cannot be sitting down across from an elderly Ariana Dumbledore. He just can't. She's dead, very dead. But as Harry squints at her face, he can see the remnants of the smiling blond girl from the portrait hanging in the Hog's Head. This woman is who she says she is, only there's no way.

"And you," Ariana continues, seemingly unaware of the fact that she should be rotting in a grave somewhere, "are Harry Potter. The boy who is going to save us all."

"I'm sorry," interrupts Harry, "but I don't understand. How do you know who I am, and why do you think that I'm the one who's going to save you guys? I don't even know what it is I'm supposedly saving you from. Hell, I don't even know where I am right now."

"You have questions, of course," replies Ariana. "I know this must all be horribly confusing. I, myself, don't know all of what is going on here. But I will tell you what I do know. I warn you, though, it's a lot to take in."

"I just want answers," says Harry. He needs to know, needs to fill this sinking pit of confusion he's been falling further and further into. His stomach is twisted in knots, a cold, thin feeling like homesickness clenching in his gut. He needs to know what's going on.

"Alright," says Ariana. Her voice is soft and soothing, the way someone would speak to a frightened animal. "I'll start with your first question, shall I? I know these things because I am a seer. It's the only kind of magic I can do that's at all useful, really. And I saw you, Mr. Potter. I saw you come to us from another world and I saw you lead us to victory. We need you to help us defeat them like you did in your world."

"My world?" says Harry. "What do you mean my world? How can—, where is this if it's not my world?" Ariana frowns, reaching up to smooth down her hair with a frail hand.

"These are questions I don't know enough about myself," she admits. "All I can say is that we exist in a world that's separate from yours. At least, it was, until just recently. But for some reason our two worlds have been encroaching on one another. The border between them is getting thin, for lack of a better way of putting it. Holes are popping up. Holes like the one you yourself passed through to get here."

"But the people here are people in my world, too," Harry protests. "At least some of them, I think. How can two versions of the same person exist like this? If you're a whole other world, shouldn't you be more, I don't know, other?" Ariana's frown deepens, worry pooling into the dips of her face.

"I'm sorry," she says. "I just can't answer these things for you. I don't know enough about it myself. All I know is what I saw, and what I saw is you fall from another world into ours to lead us against the Death Eaters and the Youngest Sons."

"The Youngest Sons," Harry asks. "Who are they?"

"Just them?" asks Ariana, suddenly curious. There's a spark in her eye now, a glint of interest. "Not the Death Eaters, too?" Harry shakes his head.

"We, um, we have a version of them, I suppose, in our world," says Harry. It sounds so strange to hear himself talking about his life this way, as if the man he spent his entire life trying to defeat was just some copy of this world's Voldemort. Harry wonders how many other Lord Voldemorts are out there, trying to dominate their world's muggles and muggleborns. He wonders if there are other hims, too, out there fighting them. He wonders if they ever lose.

"But not the Youngest Sons?" Ariana presses. Harry shakes his head.

"Interesting," Ariana breathes, then she continues her explanation. "Well, I will do my best to summarize who they are then. The Youngest Sons aren't that dissimilar to the Death Eaters, really. Their ideals are the same: to create a world where witches and wizards are in charge and muggles are just servants, below them, some subclass living in constant fear and admiration, or some such thing. The only difference between the groups really is their leaders. You'd think the two groups would work together just fine since they want the same things, but power doesn't work that way, I suppose. To share it, is to diminish it. And neither Riddle nor Albus and Grindelwald want to share."

"Albus?" asks Harry. It's as if a bolt of electricity has just shot through him, coursing up his spine to rest, tingling in his fingertips. Dumbledore. Albus Dumbledore is in charge of some evil, Death Eater like group. Albus, the man who had guided Harry through everything, taking him step by step through growing up into the Chosen One. The man who had sacrificed everything, even his own life to defeat Voldemort and Grindelwald. How can this be true? How can any version of that great man be a tyrant like Lord Voldemort? Even here, even in a whole other world.

Ariana sees the recognition on Harry's face.

"You know my brother in your world?" she asks.

"I—yes," says Harry. "But in my world your brother would never—he was a great man. He was my mentor, my teacher. And he never would do any of the things you're describing to me. Never."

Harry looks up into Ariana's face to see tears gathering, making her eyes gleam in the dim light. But there's a smile on her face: a warm, wistful smile.

"Really?" she asks, and there's hope in her words. Hope and longing and love. But there's a sadness, too. The Albus Harry is describing isn't hers, but he is an Albus. And that Albus is a hero, not a dark lord. It's a bittersweet knowledge, knowing that he could have been great, that he didn't have to become this way.

"Yes," says Harry. "In my world, your brother was a leader against dark magic. He defeated Grindelwald, got an Order of Merlin, first class for doing it, too. And he was the leader of the Order of the Phoenix, too, the group who fought against Voldemort. He's the reason I was able to defeat him. His careful planning and training. It was all him. He was an amazing man." A tear trickles down Ariana's cheek, but the smile on her face grows, filled with pride for this other version of her brother. Aberforth just frowns, staring at Harry intently, scrutinizing his face for any sign of a lie.

"Thank you." Ariana sniffs, wiping her cheek with the back of her wizened hand. "You don't know how glad it makes me to hear that. My brother here, well, he never reached that potential. He is powerful, undoubtably powerful, but he doesn't use that power for anything good. Sure, he claims he does it for some greater good, but those are just words. He must believe them, though. Even he isn't so hungry for power as to do all of this without at least thinking that he has some good reason."

Aberforth scoffs at these words, a disbelieving huff of exhaled air. Ariana shoots him a warning look.

"It's Grindelwald's influence, I think," she continues. "Albus' relationship with him is when this whole thing started, after all. They lead the Youngest Sons together, ruling over the northern half of England. That's how they divide it, you see: the Youngest Sons get the North with Liverpool as their capital, and the Death Eaters get the south, using London as their base."

"But why are they called the Youngest Sons?" asks Harry. "Albus was the oldest, wasn't he? And I don't think Grindelwald had any siblings at all."

It's Aberforth who answers, finally breaking his sullen silence.

"No one knows," Aberforth says in his gravelly voice. "They keep it right secretive. I wouldn't be surprised if even their followers, who call themselves it so proudly, don't even know. The bloody idiots."

"Will you help us?" Ariana asks suddenly, gazing at Harry intently. Her bony hands grip the armrests of her chair, creating deep pockmarks in the floral fabric. "The muggles of our world have been reduced to mere slaves. The muggleborns we can't get to in time are prisoners, locked up in Azkaban or tortured and murdered on charges of crimes against magic like they stole their powers from some real wizard. The truth is, Mr. Potter, that we are struggling to survive let alone fight back. We are struggling and we need help. We need you."

Harry's head is still reeling, trying to sort out everything he's just heard. Everything that was once so certain and stable, neatly tucked into the category of Truth, is now on end, scattered and in question. But despite this fog, Harry knows his answer. It's easy. It's in his nature. Fighting against the forces Ariana is describing is all Harry has ever done, all he knows how to do.

"I'll help," he says, and Ariana beams. But Aberforth jumps to his feet, suddenly incredulous. His fluffy eyebrows are furrowed together; his jaw is tight with indignation.

"Seriously?" he asks, his voice filled with scorn. "Just like that? We just suck you out of some other world and say pretty please would you kill three of the most powerful dark wizards of all time for us and tear down their entire organizations while you're at it, and you just say sure? Where's your sense, boy? You're just a bloody child, for Merlin's sake. What we're asking is ridiculous. You should just go back to your cozy little world where my brother is some fucking hero and live out your days in peace." Aberforth seems so large in this moment, all broad shoulders and billowing robes and frizzy grey hair. Ariana clutches her stomach with one hand, concern etched across her narrow face.

"Aberforth, stop this," she says placatingly. "We need him. He's doing the right thing now, the brave thing."

"The brave thing?" snaps Aberforth. "Ha! The dumb thing more like it! Bravery is just some name we give to people who don't have enough common sense to go save themselves. No, you're not telling him too many things, Ariana. What about the fact that we are losing, miserably, hopelessly losing? That there's only a handful of us left to even help? There's nothing some little boy like him can do here. No, you get out of here, boy. Go save yourself now while you still can."

"I think helping is the right thing to do," says Harry. His temper is kicking in now, heat and energy flaring in his chest. Every Gryffindor instinct in his body is shouting at him that giving up is wrong, that if he had given up before during the war that everything would have been lost. Harry can tell that Aberforth is giving up now, probably has been for quite some time. Something inside Harry is repulsed by that, and now Aberforth is trying to drag Harry down with him into his cowardice.

You have to fight. Fight until the end. Fight until you die. That is honor.

"That's a boy's answer," says Aberforth. "A boy… You don't strike me as a fool, Harry Potter." Suddenly, a thrill of déjà vu courses through Harry. Those words sound familiar, an echo of something heard once long ago. Words that came from another version of those thin cracked lips. And now Harry knows what to do.

"And that's a coward's answer," he says. "You weren't a coward in my world, not in the end. You're not allowed to be one here." Blue eyes go wide, puffed up with indignation.

"A coward? No, Potter, I'm just not a complete idiot. We've lost this battle long ago. All we can do now is slow down our own inevitable deaths. You shouldn't have to get sucked down with us. Hell, I'm helping you, kid. Take this out. Take it now so you don't have to die with us."

"No," says Harry, and now he's on his feet too, face mere inches from Aberforth's red features. "This isn't over. Just because you've given up doesn't mean everyone else has to, too. Your sister believes. And Neville and Seamus, who risked their lives to come get me, clearly still believe, and they're fighting! I'm not going to leave you guys to this. I'm just not. Now shut the hell up and just accept my help, won't you?"

"What help can some kid like you poss—"

"Aberforth!" shouts Ariana, cutting off her brother in mid-sentence, and there's a panic in her voice, a panic that has both Harry and Aberforth silent and listening in an instant. They turn, focusing all their attention on the seated woman. She's crumpled over now, clutching at her stomach, her face scrunched up in obvious pain. Sweat drips from her brow, warm beads of moisture clinging to her deathly pale skin.

"Run!"

And suddenly hands are on Harry, pushing him, shoving him towards the door and Harry and Aberforth are running, running like their lives depend on it. As they reach the door, Harry's thoughts spin, caught up a whirlpool of panicked confusion. Something bad is happening, something horrible and dangerous. He can feel the fear pouring off of Aberforth, could hear the terror in Ariana's voice. But why are they leaving Ariana behind? Maybe he should go back, grab her and take her with him. But Aberforth is pushing him through the door and now they're jumping and the door is slamming shut behind them, and something, something explodes.

The entire building shakes. Cracks spread across the ground like spiders' webs, emanating out from the room where Ariana sits. The door rattles, threatening to give way and the floor is vibrating beneath Harry's cheek, filled with energy. Aberforth's weight is on top of him, crushing him, flattening Harry's lungs in his chest, but the man is trying to protect him from whatever force is shaking the building like a bored child with a snow globe. And then, in an instant, everything is still. But there's a thrumming in the air, power sparking. Aberforth rolls off Harry, turning to look back at the closed door.

"What was that?" asks Harry.

"What is that, you mean," says Aberforth, getting to his feet. "It's not over yet. You can feel it, can't you, boy?"

"Yeah," says Harry, standing as well. A tinge of pain shoots through his knees where they smashed against the hard floor. His hands are scratched, too, red and raw.

"It's Ariana," says Aberforth. He stands staring at the door, a faraway look in his eyes. His words aren't quite directed at Harry. "Her magic. She can't control it, not since—well, not since she was young. Sometimes it just explodes, especially if she's feeling emotional. And when it does it could attack anyone. Even the people she cares about most." Here, Aberforth trails off, but Harry knows what he must be thinking of. Their mother, Kendra, killed by one of Ariana's first outbursts of magic.

"What do we do?" asks Harry.

"Nothing yet," replies Aberforth. "There's nothing we can do until the episode is over. Could be killed if we went in there now. Just have to wait it out."

Harry nods, and the pair watches the door. The air continues to tremble. Occasionally, the door jolts, shaking in its frame as if something, some great monster inside, is trying to escape. Then Aberforth breaks the silence.

"My brother, in your world, he's really some sort of hero?" he asks. He still doesn't look at Harry, as if averting his gaze will keep Harry from knowing how important the answer is to him.

"He was," says Harry. "He died fighting Voldemort. Died trying to save everyone." He pauses for a moment, then continues. "There was this boy Voldemort ordered to kill Dumbledore, a student at Hogwarts with me actually, but Dumbledore knew that the boy didn't have it in him, that he was still innocent despite it all. And he knew what Voldemort would do to this boy and his family if the boy wasn't able to do it, kill him, I mean. So he stopped him, killed himself another way before the boy would have to. He gave him that second chance. I thought at the time that he was crazy, but Dumbledore just saw something in the boy I couldn't yet. He was able to see people, see the good in them, even people who were our enemies. He was… a wise man. He was definitely a hero."

Harry glances over at the older man. Aberforth is still staring at the door, but he doesn't seem to see it. His mind is elsewhere, trying to comprehend this other version of his brother, the way things could have been. His broad face is scrunched up into a deep scowl. His thick eyebrows dip down into a V over his nose, and his blue eyes are slits, glaring into nothing. He seems angry. Angry at this world's version of Albus for making such choices, for being a tyrant when he could have been such a hero. But at the same time he's angry at Harry's version of Albus for existing at all, for making hating this world's version of his brother even harder, even more complicated. Aberforth opens his mouth to speak.

And a wailing noise fills the air, high pitched and incessant. It's horribly loud, impossible to ignore. An alarm of some sort, similar to the one that went off when Harry landed in that London street. And then footsteps echo off the walls as Seamus and Neville run up the hallway towards them.

"Fuck," swears Aberforth, looking around in horror. "They've found us."

"It's the sensors!" yells Neville, skidding to a halt in front of Harry and Aberforth. "Her magic must have set them off. They're coming!"

"What sensors?" asks Harry, "What's happening?" All around them everything is chaos. Harry can hear yelling from up the hallway. Occasionally, a body rushes by, people sprinting, panicking, shouting. And then the loud cracks of disapparation. Everyone is fleeing.

"The Youngest Sons," explains Seamus hurriedly, "they've set up all these sensors across their territory that pick up high concentrations of magic. They'll be here in a moment. Maybe twenty seconds if we're lucky. We've got to go."

"But what about Ariana?" asks Harry. They all turn, looking at the door. It's still shuddering in its frame. Clearly, Ariana's latest episode isn't over yet. Harry looks up at Aberforth. A myriad of emotions are flickering across his face, pain, guilt, sadness, and then finally his expression settles into one of grim determination.

"You go," he says. "You have to get Potter out of here, get him to safety. I'll stay behind and try to get her out as soon as the magic has subsided."

"We can't just leave you," Harry says. He knows that expression. It's the face of a man who knows that he's sacrificing himself, who knows that he won't be coming after them. It's the same expression Albus wore on that rooftop when he sent Harry away, the same expression Harry himself wore as he walked into the Forbidden Forest to die.

"You can and you will, boy," snaps Aberforth. "Neville, get him out of here, now!" He looks at Harry for a moment, sizing him up grimly. "And until I get back to you he's in charge." Another burst of loud booms echo down the hallway, only this time Harry knows people are apparating in, not disapparating out to safety. Bad people. The Youngest Sons.

"Wait—" Harry begins to say, reaching for his wand in his pocket. Every fiber of his being is screaming at him to stand and fight, not run and leave Aberforth and Ariana here defenseless like some coward, but for the second time that day, Neville's arm are wrapping around him, and suddenly the world is dark and black and he can't breathe.

Aberforth is alone in the hallway. He exhales sharply, staring at the empty space where the boy had been mere seconds earlier. Then he gathers himself up to his full height, spinning on the spot to stand tall and stable, legs braced, his wand at his side. Next to him, the door continues to quiver. He hopes that it will continue to do so, that Ariana's magic will keep them away from her for at least a little longer. He raises his wand, pointing it up the hallway where he can already hear the patter of footsteps. Whatever else happens tonight, the first person coming around that corner is going to regret ever meeting the inventor of the Goat Horn Hex.

You have to fight. Fight until the end. Fight until you die. That is honor.

And Aberforth is fighting.

*Author's Note: Well there you have it, chapter two is complete! I really hope you guys liked it. What do you think about the name of Albus'/Grindelwald's organization? I'm curious if any of you can figure out what the name refers to! Please review with any feedback, suggestions or just to say hi! :) I love hearing from you guys, it really makes my day. I am especially grateful to hear from those of you who also read and reviewed my other stories while I was writing them. I am so glad to have you as readers once more; you are all awesome! I said this before, but if you guys have any requests for this story I am happy to keep them in mind. Thanks so much for reading, and the next chapter should be up soon!*