Woah, so many plot-twists in this chapter! Even I was surprised. Leave me a review letting me know what you think, maybe?

Chapter Four

search for me truly, sir, until I am found

Breakfast was over and Potions nearly half way through before Harry felt composed enough to raise his head from between the pillows and take his first complete breath in an hour or more. Around him utter silence reigned; it didn't even sound like there was anyone in the common room. It must be lovely weather outside, because seventh years had their break first thing in the morning and usually they could be heard groaning over any number of ailments which tended to range from an essay incomplete but soon due to a rumbling stomach because breakfast had been missed to confusion over a vaguely worded owl received that morning from a significant other at another school. Today, though, it sounded like the common room as well as the fifth year boys' dormitory was deserted.

'Just as well,' Harry thought as he began to put on the clothing Ron had thrown at him...when? Earlier that morning. It seemed like a full day had passed since he had first laid his head down with the sudden memory of last night's conversation with Neville. If one could even call it a conversation. Crying without explanation while a friend watched wordlessly did not exactly a discourse make. Harry did feel much calmer about the whole thing, now, though. He was able to tell himself that the events of the previous night were not really as disastrous as they had seemed even a short while ago.

Doubtless, Neville had just been being kind. Was that not what Neville was nearly always wont to do? He might have been middling craven and shier than most, but Neville was always, unfailingly kind, and unlike most students at Hogwarts he had a special capacity for empathy. It was, Harry mused as he ran a comb uselessly through his hair, what made Neville so good at the things at which Neville was good: Herbology, Defense Against the Dark Arts, aiding Hermione in her otherwise single-handed crusade on behalf of the castle's house elves, breaking up fights in the common room when they did happen, which was seldom. Neville could always see things from another person's perspective and, what was more, Neville could navigate seemingly effortlessly the space between how that other person felt and how that person wished he or she could be feeling at the moment. He always tried very hard to make the two mental states fuse when he could.

'So...right. That was it,' Harry thought. Harry had cried last night because he'd felt isolated and unloved and, worst of all, incapable of loving. Neville had sensed that and, characteristically, said the only words that could be said to alleviate all of the muddled feelings that had surged their way through Harry's eyes and all down his face on the common room sofa in the middle of the night. Neville had been being kind, and he had been successful in returning to Harry the sense that he could and did love his friends, dearly, for the aide they were able to give him when they were able to give it. Now that Thursday had finally and truly begun in earnest, he was free from the negative feelings of yesterday to let gratitude rush through him and, too, to let his focus shift to other things, things outside of himself.

'Such as the mess of pain I'm about to be in for missing Potions,' he thought wryly. There was nothing to be done about it now, though, except to prepare a suitable excuse which Ron would hopefully back him up in and which would most likely fail anyway, and to spend this unexpected free time working on his Transfiguration essay in the peaceful silence of a well-lit common room. For the first time in weeks—perhaps months—Harry felt genuinely well rested and his mind seemed clear of the sort of fog and needless worry that usually made all of the tasks set to him during his waking hours seem more arduous than they needed to be.

His books were still in the common room where he'd left them last night, and after a quick glance in the mirror by the dormitory door he made his way down the stairs. For the zillioneth time in his life he wished his hair would lay flat, just once, for just one hour even. Like Gawain's hair did, even with the unnaturally warm breeze blowing through the pavilion in the snow. That would have made Harry—

Harry paused mid-step and nearly toppled down the stairs. Gawain. In the rush of memories and mental sorting regarding Neville and their exchange the previous evening, Harry had somehow forgotten about his early morning dream and the conversation he'd had with the super-magical man who called himself Gawain. Standing in the stairwell with one foot poised in mid air, ready to continue helping Harry down the stairs and on to the completion of tasks which desperately needed completing if this weekend was to be enjoyed on any level, Harry nearly gasped with the effect of the events of the dream pouring back into his consciousness. The man in his dreams had seemed to know him, which was not uncommon for dreams really; the man had seemed to know, too, a great deal of things about Harry's future as well as his past and his current deepest hid secrets.

'Well, Neville knew those secrets last night, too,' Harry thought, but he could not push aside the sense that there was still something odd, perhaps even something off, about the kindness he had benefited from while standing in the dream-world of Gawain's other-worldly court. Neville had seemed to know the gist of Harry's feelings, but he hadn't known specifics. Gawain had said just enough to suggest that every detail of Harry's past, present, and future were already known to him.

Too, there was the feeling of the court itself, so much like a Penseive but not quite the same. That was odd. Even though he had been almost immersed in the Wizarding world, save for a few lonely summers between his first few years at Hogwarts, there were still so many things Harry didn't know about what was usual or acceptable or perhaps rare but still normal within the magical community. Normally he asked Ron or Neville or Seamus about these things when they came up—Hell, even Hermione knew more than he did about many of these things. Some occurances, though, such as his discovery that he, and precious few others, had the ability to communicate with snakes using Parseltongue, he had never felt quite comfortable discussing with his friends. Things like his Parseltongue ability or the invasions Voldemort had made into his mind were things that he tended to keep to himself as long as possible and then discuss first with his God-father Sirius, Lupin, or even Dumbledore when the situation became serious enough to warrant it. Sirius was unavailable to him at the moment though, as was Lupin, at least until the weekend. Dumbledore had been at the castle at least as of last night; Harry had seen him make an increasingly rare appearance in the Great Hall during dinner. Was this strange dream he had had worth bothering Dumbledore for? Probably not.

Yet, as Harry attempted to settled down in an armchair to work on his Transfiguration essay, he was unable to push the dream and the various possible implications of it—some good, some bad—from his mind. The clarity he had felt until half way down the staircase was entirely gone; he could not help but fret over the possibility that danger lay at the heart of the warmth the dream had seemed to contain while he also nurtured a quiet hope that Gawain would reappear the next time he closed his eyes.

His essay lay forgotten across his lap as he stared out of the window running back and forth through the dream until the shouts of people bustling outside the portrait of the Fat Lady signaled that the first class of the day was finished. He had made no progress with his homework, had failed to come up with any sort of explanation to excuse his absence in Potions that morning, and he was no closer to having a grasp on what the dream might possibly mean. 'An utterly wasted morning,' he chided himself as Hermione and Neville came clambering through the portrait and into the common room. He did his best to look slightly ill.

"Hey guys," he said when it became clear that they fully intended to engage him in conversation. "What'd I miss?"

""Miss, Harry? You missed everything! We had to do the next several steps in our Developing Potions, and I hate to be the one to tell you, but Ron thoroughly ruined yours. The two of you will have to start all over!"

Hermione threw herself down in the arm chair next to Harry's. She certainly did not look as though she were hating to be the bearer of bad news; her face was flushed with happiness as it had been yesterday, though there was certainly no wind or sunshine in the common room. In fact, the weather outside the window seemed to be taking a turn for the worse as the clouds drifting across the sky appeared a tinge darker every time he took another look. Neville crouched on the arm of Hermione's chair; he also looked more flushed than usual, and though Harry could not be certain of this, he seemed to be avoiding Harry's gaze at all costs. He mumbled something about Ron having not been strictly at fault while Hermione continued to list all of the things, academic, social, and disciplinary in nature, that Harry had missed during that morning's lesson.

"I woke up with a bit of fever," he finally said to stem the stream of potion characteristics, pointed comments made by Millicent about Pansy's new dress robes, stirring techniques, points lost from Gryffindor, and other things that Harry normally may have found interesting but which he just could not pay attention to at the moment. "I'm feeling better now, though, so I'll just stop by the dungeons after lunch and make my apologies."

"Make your apologies? I suppose that would be a nice gesture, not that such things matter with Snape, but he's already decided on your punishment. Malfoy was practically in hysterics about it. You and Ron have to stay in the castle on Saturday and copy out some ancient text Snape's got on magical remedies for common magical ailments. It actually sounds a bit fascinating to me, actually. Ron's late getting back because he's still trying to get out of, though. Hopefully he won't make things worse for either of you."

Harry groaned because he knew that was the expected reaction to news that he would have to miss a rare Hogsmeade adventure. It took him a few moments to fully realize that this meant there would be no way at all that he would see Lupin this weekend, and when that sunk in he groaned again. Neville darted a glance in his direction before quickly returning his eyes back to an extremely intense study of a bit of leaf and dirt stuck to the toe of his left shoe.

Ron suddenly appeared at the edge of the common room, his face red with rage as he crossed over to join them. "You!" he screamed while he was still half way across the room. "Harry! Where were you? You know I can't do the half quarter counter-clockwise turn while adjusting the heat all on my own! Now we're missing Hogsmeade and any chance of relaxation on Sunday!"

Hermione had been right; Ron had made things worse. Harry didn't care at all about Sunday, though, and he allowed himself to be washed with self-pity as he contemplated the fact that it could be months now before he'd be able to talk freely with Lupin. Ron continued to rant for quite some time while Hermione alternately scolded and tried, in her own way, to console him with reminders that this would be a good learning opportunity and in that way much better than just copying any old lines. Harry was absently aware of Neville's continued silence throughout this exchange, and was just beginning to re-consider his previous idea of going to Dumbledore about this dream, since talking to Lupin was now entirely out of the question, when it was time for all four of them to gather their things and head to History of Magic.

As he shuffled along in the back of the group headed to the classroom where the ghostly Professor Binns was doubtless already waiting, Harry wondered if his academic record for the day could really get any worse by missing another class in which the professor wasn't even there in body himself. Deciding that things couldn't be any worse for him than they already were, Harry dashed off in the opposite direction before any one in the group could notice his absence.

He had decided to try to arrange a meeting with Dumbledore even if he wouldn't be able to talk to him at just that moment. Past experience had taught him that things like his dream, even if harmless, were better addressed sooner rather than later because, given the state of the Wizarding—and the Muggle—world, anything out of the ordinary had to be treated as suspect until the root cause could be determined. And if the dream was normal, or just, as was likely, a peculiar effect of Harry's subconscious given the stress and sleep deprivation he'd lately been experiencing, at least that would be one small load off of his mind. Maybe he'd even be able to finish that nagging Transfiguration essay tonight.

And so Harry made his way across the castle toward the tower where Dumbledore's office was located. The last time he had been there, near the beginning of the term when he had been charged by Lupin to deliver a message not considered safe to put into writing, the password had been "Toffee Eclair," but Harry couldn't be sure that that hadn't changed. Witches and wizards didn't seem to have secretaries like Muggles did; as Harry hurried through the stragglers winding their ways to class, he wondered how he would even go about setting up a meeting with Dumbledore in advance. He'd always just barged in hoping for an audience, as he was doing now. What would he do if Dumbledore weren't there? What would he ever do if Dumbledore one day failed to be found sitting serenely behind the wide desk at the top of his tower, studying one of his arcane magical devices or leafing through a brittley fragile and aged text or speaking in calm tones with some important person?

"Toffee Eclair" he announced to the gargoyle which guarded the entrance to the Headmaster's office. By the grace of God, the password worked, and he pushed from his mind his worries about one day having to deal with any kind of problem without the security of Dumbledore's presence if not his direct audience. Climbing the stairs, he concentrated instead on organizing his thoughts so that, while he would still be bursting in unannounced, he at least would not be forced to babble like a madman to communicate his reasons for being there.

"Harry? To what may I owe this wholly unexpected pleasure?"

Before he'd even reached the top of the stairs, Dumbledore's voice came lilting toward him from the professor's position standing near the tray on which Fawkes the phoenix was looking rather terribly under the weather. Dumbledore's long spindly fingers were caressing the few feathers remaining on Fawkes's thin frame and looks of wry contemplation shaped the faces of both man and bird. Harry paused at the landing, hesitant at first to interrupt this moment though he knew, because Dumbledore had taught him, that the molting of a phoenix ought not to be treated as an occasion for sadness but, rather, as one for contemplation of the wonders of nature and the beauty in all things. It did not take long, though, for Dumbledore to turn his piercing stare toward Harry in expectation of an answer to his question, and Harry at last moved his feet a few paces into the office.

"Sir, I'm sorry to interrupt you," he began, but Dumbledore waved a thin hand through to air to signal that Harry was not interrupting anything. Harry knew this to be untrue, though, so he rushed on, forgetting the speech he had prepared in his hurry towards Dumbledore's office.

"I—I'm not sure if I—maybe I should go, sir. It's just that, uh, I had this dream last night that seemed weird, and I—um..." Harry faltered completely. This visit and the feelings that had occasioned it seemed more silly and irrelevant with each word that fell from his lips. He never should have come, he thought. And if he hadn't known better, he would have sworn that Dumbledore was reading his mind because at that same instant Dumbledore silenced his ramblings by holding up that same hand which had just moments ago been prompting him to speak, and he said, "You should be in, ah, History of Magic with Professor Binns during this time, am I correct?"

Harry blushed a bit and nodded.

"So," Dumbledore continued, moving from Fawkes's stand to the seat behind his desk, "something seemed pressing enough to urge you here despite the risk of losing points for your house and, of course, the risk of lost knowledge."

'How does he have my schedule memorized like that?' Harry thought. Outwardly, he only shrugged.

"If it was indeed so pressing, which harbor no doubt against it's being, then tell me, Harry. At the very worst, it will turn out to not matter so much, and you'll be able to join your classmates before the good Professor Binns has had a chance to notice your absence."

With that, a kindly smile, and a gesture toward the seat in front of his desk with the implication that Harry should sit, Dumbledore leaned back carefully in his own chair and waited for Harry to begin.

"Right. Yeah. Well, like I said I had a dream last night. Not like one of the dreams where Voldemort comes to me, but more like when I'm in your Pensieve. Except very happy. It was a very happy dream." Harry blushed again realizing that he had somewhat implied that Professor Dumbledore's memories weren't such happy ones. Dumbledore simply nodded without changing his expression though. Of course Dumbledore wouldn't share with Harry his happiest memories; those were none of Harry's business.

"Um, so, it was very happy. I felt happier than I've felt in a long time, sir, to be, um, honest. And then this man showed up and even though no one else could see me or touch me, just like in the Pensieve, this man could. And he knew my name, and he knew something about some prophesy, and he seemed to understand things about me and what I had to do and how I felt about it, and..." Harry realized he was rambling again. He glanced at Dumbledore to try to gauge his reaction to the story thus far.

Dumbledore had sat up a bit but he did not look worried, exactly. He looked more curious than anything. "I see," he said after a minute or two of silence had passed. "What did this man look like?"

Harry briefly described the man as well as he was able, though words seemed terribly insufficient to the task of doing justice to this otherworldly man's appearance.

Dumbledore nodded again. "And tell me, Harry. Were you in a marble pavilion?"

Slightly taken aback, Harry answered yes, adding, "It was warm there even though there was snow on the ground!" because that seemed important somehow.

Dumbledore's face broke into a smile. Once more, he nodded, and then several more minutes passed as he gazed at Harry with something like a satisfied wonder illuminating his expression. Finally, he spoke, saying simply, "I was right about you."

Harry stared blankly. Was his dream important? Was there anything about it that he should be worrying about? How had Dumbledore known about the pavilion? He wanted answers to his questions, not the apparently unspoken ones Dumbledore had been harboring.

"Everyone is always quick to notice those pieces of your father in you, Harry, but I believe there is more of your mother in you than most people realize."

"I have her eyes," Harry replied quickly before he realized that that was probably not what Dumbledore meant.

"Yes, yes, her eyes. There was, it goes without saying, more to her than her eyes, and those parts of her which were most precious and secret seem to be a part of you, too."

There was another long period of silence while the two sat across the desk staring at each other, Dumbledore in a happy satisfaction and Harry in utter bewilderment.

"Lilly Evans—pardon me, your mother, had dreams like yours, Harry. Dreams in which she could make contact, only briefly, only for short periods of time, and mostly not at will, with other universes. With other magical people from other worlds and times. She, too, often visited the court of Sir Arthur. Though she usually spoke with Guinevere, from what she told me. She would have been delighted to have been acknowledged by Sir Gawain as you have been. She would be so proud of you."

It took several moments for this information to sink in. As it did, hundreds of questions sprouted in Harry's mind, and he could hardly hold himself back from attempting to ask all of them at once. He tried to be selective.

"Other universes?" he asked. "Can loads of people do this? What do you mean by 'mostly not at will'?"

Dumbledore smiled again and leaned his head to the side, stroking his beard as he was wont to do while he decided how much of Harry's curiosity to indulge. His eyes twinkled.

"Yes, other universes," he said at last. "Now that the dreams have begun, you're sure to learn more about them as time goes on, so I won't ruin any of the surprises you have in store. In response to your second question, the answer, sadly, is no. It is a rare gift, most often passed down through a mother to her children but not always. Some people acquire the gift even without having any known relative living or dead who were able to do the same thing." Dumbledore stood. "And my response to your third question is the same as to your first. So, I think it is time now for you to be returning to class. I'm sure we will talk again soon as you learn more."

Harry stood, knowing that it was useless to protest. When Dumbledore opened his office door for him, though, he couldn't resist turning to ask one final question, the question that had plagued his mind until he'd decided to make this impromptu visit in the first place.

"Sir, please, one more thing. Should I be worried? About these dreams, I mean?"

Dumbledore shook his head, sharing with Harry one last thoughtful look. "No, Harry. These dreams are a treasure. Unlike so many things happening all around you every day, these dreams are one thing you shall never need to worry about."

That was good enough for Harry who felt again the peaceful feeling he'd awoken with that morning as he strode down the hallway away from the Headmaster's tower. Doors began to open and students thronged the hallway with him, and the knowledge that he would not, in fact, have to return to class added an extra bit of joy.

He picked up his pace, in a hurry to get to the common room to tell Ron and Hermione this latest development. Ron would be eager for the story, and he imagined that Hermione would be just delighted that the first universe he'd gotten to experience had been straight from the Arthurian legends she'd been lately feeling so nostalgic about. His dreams could, he felt, help not only to dispell the angst and anxiety he'd been wallowing in lately; they would also serve as an olive branch to his friends, and they would help to bring the three of them back together again.

This possibility which had seemed so sure dissipated as soon as he entered the common room. There, he found Ron sulking red-faced and looking on the verge of tears. Before he had a chance to say anything to his friend, though, Harry spied from the corner of his eye the scene which surely was the source of Ron's current countenance. Hermione and Neville were seated together, extremely close, on the sofa before the fire, and they appeared to be kissing.