Mirror, Mirror
Reception
"…Is—is all of this real?" Harry asked haltingly, regarding the old man across from him—the man who'd caused him so much pain and offered him so much joy—with a mixture of confusion and hope. "Or is all of it just happening inside my head?"
"Of course it's all happening inside your head," Dumbledore said affectionately, as though this were the most interesting question yet of Harry's interview. "But why should that mean it isn't real?"
Harry bit his lip in exasperated amusement.
"Still cryptic," he muttered. The headmaster chuckled. They faced each other for a moment in silent, mutual admiration before Harry dipped his head.
"Not that I want to leave you," he said honestly. "But aren't I needed? You know," he jerked his head back by means of indications, as if (absurdly, he realized) the world of the living lay behind him. "…back there?"
The smile slipped from Dumbledore's face as he glanced about himself.
"Yes," he said, more to himself than anything. "Yes, I should think you are. Of course, not much can happen on that side without you, but you should be getting back …But I'd thought they'd let them come though, if only for a few minutes…"
"Sorry," said Harry, trying to catch Dumbledore's wandering eyes. "Who?"
"Nona, Decima, and Morta," Dumbledore said, as though it were perfectly obvious. "I thought they would send the others along."
"Still cryptic," Harry reminded him insistently, beginning to remember again why he'd always found Dumbledore so infuriating.
"The Fates, you've met them," Dumbledore said. "Although—" he finally turned and focused on Harry. "Although I suppose you still don't remember that. We'll see if they can't restore your memories while they bring on the others. Seven's the maximum if I remember correctly. Oh ladies?" He addressed the last two words to the sky and Harry, now thoroughly confused again and for lack of anything else to do, turned his own eyes upwards to see if anything might break through the swirling, white nothing.
"Reception can handle seven, can it not?" Dumbledore asked. He waited a moment and tried again. "Whichever other six Mr. Potter finds most fitting—now would be the best time to send them along."
There was a small noise behind him and Harry turned to find, of all things, the most horrifically ugly woman he'd ever seen—fitted, no less, with one great, blue eye and one empty eye socket—suddenly standing there, apparently having just appeared out of thin air.
Despite the retraction he felt from her with the drippy, pussy boils on her face and the horse teeth splaying from her lips, Harry managed to swallow his bile and remark as kindly as possible, "Quiet Apparation there."
The woman smiled in amusement, revealing more of her horse teeth, as Dumbledore whirled about from staring up at the sky to spot her.
"Ah!" he said jovially. "Morta, lovely to see you."
"I'm sure," she replied, a hint of irony to her voice, as though she knew her face was inducing nausea in Harry's stomach. "You called, Albus?"
"Reception can handle seven Escorts, am I right?" said Professor Dumbledore in a businesslike tone. Morta inclined her head.
"It can," she said evenly. Dumbedore, who had apparently expected a different response by the way his thick eyebrows scrunched together, switched to a different approach.
"And if you and your sisters allowed more than one to arrive, Mr. Potter's subconscious would automatically call upon the other six to populate his Reception?"
"It would."
The professor seemed all the more perplexed by her answers and the phrase "unstoppable force, immovable object" floated through Harry's mind. Only now, the case was more a matter of "bewildering force meets confusing will." Harry smiled at the spectacle, despite not having a clue as to what was going on.
"Could you send them along?" Dumbledore asked.
"I could."
"Will you?"
"I will."
They regarded one another for a moment more before Dumbledore's face broke into a smile of understanding.
"Morta," he said. "Allow the others to come now. Please." Morta's eyes crinkled in a smile.
"Politely imperative," she said thoughtfully. "That's how language works, Professor. They'll be along shortly, it always takes a while to send more than one to Reception. Mr. Potter," she said, nodding to Harry. "Nice to see the acne's cleared up." And with nary a bang nor a puff, she was gone, leaving Harry, customarily, only more confused than ever.
"Oh Morta?" said Dumbledore suddenly, as though he'd forgotten something. The great, blue eye appeared without the rest of the woman, as though she couldn't be bothered to make the rest of herself show up for a second trip. "Restore Mr. Potter his memories of your last encounter. Please?" The eye dipped as though its' head had just nodded in agreement and flickered away just as easily as had its' owner.
There was quiet for a moment again, Dumbledore steepling his fingers and letting them hang at his front, chuckling to himself, while Harry tried to catch the old man's eye.
"What was that about?" Harry finally said, when he found it impossible to catch the old man's concentration.
"Always delightful to speak to her," said Dumbledore. "Conversation is her forte, the old sophist…" he paused when he saw the look Harry was giving him.
"What was that about?" the young man repeated. Dumbledore sighed as though he wished Morta was back for conversation.
"Well," he said. "I expect you'll understand in a moment. It takes a while for those girls to get through their files, not that I blame them of course, with the amount of material they have, but your memories will be restored to you soon enough."
"My—my what?"
"Memories, dear boy. You've seen this place before, you've just forgotten."
"But I've never—"
"Died, no, of course you haven't. But there are other ways to see into Other World."
Harry swallowed, trying to wrap his head around this information and find himself incapable.
"I don't understand."
"As I said, give it a moment." Dumbledore's eyes twinkled over the half-moon spectacles. "I'm afraid these aren't the right questions, Harry."
Harry pursed his lips in annoyance.
"Right," he said. "Okay, fine, what's the right question then?"
"'Who's coming?'"
"Who's coming?"
"I haven't the faintest clue, Harry. (The dark-haired man was ready to punch his old professor now.) ….But they'll be the next closest people to you on this side so I believe we can both hazard guesses." (The urge was somewhat relieved.)
"Dumbledore," Harry sighed, just barely restraining himself from exhaustedly rubbing his face. "Please—what's going on?" The old wizard beamed at him.
"You've seen this place before," Dumbledore said. "Don't worry, that much will be restored to you presently. What you don't know, and haven't ever known, are the mechanics of the afterlife, which I presume would be your most pressing inquiry." When Harry, beckoned him onwards with an impatient twirl of the hand, Dumbledore continued. "When a person dies, they find themselves in Reception. Upon becoming comfortable enough with the space they are in, despite their fear, anger, or confusion, the Fates then decide the newcomer is ready for an Escort. They allow one to arrive and, drawing from the newly-dead's subconscious, the most helpful forerunner returns to Reception to help their loved one along. As I hold many of the answers you need, it would seem you chose me—a fact I'm duly flatter by, dear boy."
"But what did that woman—?" Harry began; however Dumbledore stilled him with a raised hand.
"Seven Escorts are the maximum amount allowed into Reception. But for that many to join us, it takes a bit of time. Unfortunately Harry, you have more than enough friends on this side to populate your next six, I already being here."
"So," Harry said, his head reeling, "Basically. My memories of seeing this place before, which apparently happened, and then were apparently taken, are being restored right now; and my parents and all the others are also coming here? All at once?"
"In a nutshell," Dumbledore said proudly. Harry swallowed.
"…Are other people's Receptions ever this strange?" he asked after a moment.
"Hardly ever," the headmaster replied, still smiling.
"And what—?" Harry began, when suddenly a flash like nothing else struck his mind and he doubled over in shock. It wasn't that Harry was unaccustomed to strange intensities in his head—he'd lived with the scar's throbs for seven years now—but this sensation was completely different. Though gone in an instant, he knew it wasn't pain, but a different attack entirely.
"…That's me, kiddo. Harry, look. I am so sorry about what happened. I should've been paying better attention. I should've tried harder…"
"Dumbledore?" he said weakly. The headmaster was before him in a second.
"It's the memories Harry," he said, placing a hand on the boy's shoulder. "It shouldn't hurt, but I can't imagine it's pleasant. Just close your eyes and it will—" His voice faded out as the sensation hit him again.
"…I petitioned that we originally be the Fellowship of the Phoenix, which has a better ring to it anyway, but according to some people that was too pretentious…"
"…You're so big now…And so handsome too…"
"I don't—" said Harry, gulping. "When was this? How did this—?"
Whoosh, another incoming.
"No…No, please, I thought you'd give us more time…!"
"We're the Fates. And it means, well, it means we're in charge. …Sort of."
"Yes, embrace your destiny! It's quite a juicy one!"
"Try to relax Harry," Dumbledore said, rubbing circles into Harry's arms. "You're alright. Try to relax."
"That woman," said Harry, struggling to comprehend. "That woman with the eye, she was there before. She—"
"Listen, Harry. We can't say this enough so you've got to know it before we go—we are so proud of you."
"I always had it in mind you'd call me Nan, if you don't mind."
"How did I talk to them?" Harry asked, forcing himself to look up at Dumbledore, the dizzying feeling of not knowing his own memories adding desperation to his tone.
"Give it a moment," Dumbledore said, sympathy in his eyes. "I'm sorry, it's strange, I know, but give it just a moment."
"Harry, we will see you again. It may take a while, but this isn't the end. Just…avoid the Whomping Willow, be nice to Filch, and you should get to be eighty years old at least."
"Mum. There's kind of a Dark Lord out there with a sizeable grudge against me…"
"And I have every faith in you. You've a got a vengeance to live, Harry, and I'm not being ridiculous about your odds. With your willpower and your skill and your smarts, you can do this. You can more than do this. And we're behind you all the way."
"Okay," said Harry, breathing heavy now. "Right, okay. I'm starting to get it but—how did this happen? Where'd they come from? And why didn't I—?"
A mist trapped within was beginning to froth. It churned more and more turbulently, and now there was a head appearing though the swirling fog. His mouth hung open and his fingers began to violently tremble as the face in the mirror sharpened to distinctly show…
"Sirius…?" He croaked.
"Harry!" Cried his godfather.
"The mirror!" Harry gasped, and the magnitude of his memories—every minutia, every emotion—joy, pain, anger, nostalgia, comfort—the explanations, the overwhelming feeling of his family gathered together for the first time—overcame him with such a force that Harry's knees buckled and gave out. He fell backward before Dumbledore could catch him, only to land in the arms of—
"Hello son," said a warm voice.
Harry looked up, his vision foggy, and blinked as his sight slowly honed into the details of a familiar, bespectacled, beaming face, framed by a million, messy, black cowlicks.
"Dad?" said the boy, and for the first time in months he really felt his age, held there in his father's arms, his shoulders across his lap. Only a father and his teenage son, like Harry had just had a bad fall in a casual Quidditch match or even simply tripped down the stairs…
"Alright there?" said James quietly, and he tightened his embrace when Harry nodded, pressing his face against his father's chest for a moment too long—the first time he'd had contact with a parent in sixteen years.
"Come on," came another voice, and Harry peered over his dad's shoulder to see Sirius offering a hand to help them up. Regaining their feet, Harry saw that the others were arriving in the same way as Morta—silent, seamless appearances carried out by a completely different magic than Apparation.
First Remus, his hands in his pockets, small smile on his face; then Tonks, whose eyes were red from crying but her bearing seemed confident enough. Fred Weasly appeared too, looking surprised to be included with the others, though he attempted a grin when he saw that Harry had spotted him.
"That's six," Harry said, looking them over. "That's six; where's—?"
"Harry?" she said, directly behind him.
Harry pivoted slowly on his heel to see Lily, still wearing the same dress as a moment before in the woods, her arms half-way extended towards him, half-way hanging at her sides, as though unsure whether to seize him up or wait to see what he would do.
Without a second thought, Harry fell into her embrace, his tears against her shoulder, hers against his chest.
Where James had given an impromptu hug to save Harry as he wilted; Lily was all there, all comfort, all warmth, all support, all love. It was a moment before Harry realized there was a word that summed that up perfectly.
"Mum," he whispered, squeezing her tighter.
One more real chapter left. Love to all for making this what it is.
To all of you who follow me as a writer, I just caught up completely on [reboot] Doctor Who yesterday, so expect the appearance of some one-shots in that fandom.