Chapter One Hundred Forty-Four: Lantern in the Window (for the Souls of the Lost)

When he returned next, it was to pitch dark, without even the light of the moon. He remembered the similarity of his last two visits to one another, and could think of nothing he'd done that would cause such absolute darkness. But, as long as that was all this was….

Perhaps, he should go sparing on the magic. He called up his ghost light, and found that he had to feed it more energy than usual to illumine his surroundings to any noticeable degree.

He noticed, with grim satisfaction, that he stood, not in the mushroom forest, nor beneath the lake, not in the greenhouse, nor the statue-filled cavern, but in the heart of a room enclosed by four wooden walls, interrupted only by a gap, here and there, to show him—to hint—that he stood in a maze. A maze built with planks of wood. Just what he'd expected, all along.

There was no way to know the proper path through a maze. This might not even be one.

But, he walked forwards, to the entrance dead ahead, for no better reason than that he'd arrived facing it. He opened his seventh sense, just to check, but, as he'd half-expected, it didn't work here. He was, after all, within someone else's mind. Quite apart from being bound—at least somewhat—by their own mental rules, nothing here was quite real. There was nothing for his seventh sense to analyse or to detect. He opened his sixth sense, instead, to its fullest. It was the sense that guided intuition, after all. He rather suspected that only intuition and luck would get him through this maze.

Well, that and dogged persistence. He wandered through the maze for hours, building a map of it in his head, as best he could. He hacked at the wooden walls with the ghost of the Sword of Gryffindor, but it had none of the power of the real thing. He cast his strongest incendio, but the wood seemed to be immune to fire. Perhaps, immune to all damage.

He spent hours forging ahead, backtracking, making wrong turnings, and fortuitous right ones, with few landmarks to go on. He used the Sword of Gryffindor as a marker, dragging it along the sides of the wall, digging in a straight line of grooves, to help mark where he'd already been. The gouge or scorch mark, he discovered, was not impossible.

He left without finding whatever he'd been looking for, and spent the next day formulating a better plan. He returned with none better than he'd already had. None of his spheres of influence had any way of besting a maze, any more than the spells he'd learnt at Hogwarts. If he had, the Third Task would have been much simpler. At least this maze wasn't full of traps and monsters. Yet. Thinking that, however, was probably asking for trouble.

Still, his gouges and scorch marks remained. Remembering the way he'd cut through the barrier before second year, he drew the holly wand, marking symbols, scorched into the wood (after trying his laser trick again; it didn't work, although the barrier was made of brick, and this was ostensibly only wood).

He wended his way deeper and deeper into the maze, after quite a few false turnings. It took him three visits to reach the heart, but his markers kept, and the maze remained a maze, and he was suitably grateful for both of these facts.

He knew that he had come to the heart of the maze when he saw her—the woman of all the statues, with long, stringy blonde hair, and tattered black robes. The monochrome of the statues had not revealed that her hair was a bright flaxen colour, and her eyes blue-grey. She had a round, friendly face, but the moment she saw him, she was on alert, wary, cautious. He remembered what he had been told, that she was a well-seasoned auror, and a member of the Order of the Phoenix.

"Here, now, I mean you no harm," he said, approaching her. "Are you Alice Longbottom?"

She gripped a battered old wand in her left hand, staring him down as if willing him to make a mistake.

"Who's asking?" she demanded.

He should have expected this question, but no final decision could be made as to how to answer, as he'd told himself in the days leading up to this confrontation, until he'd met her, taken her measure, seen what sort of person she was.

He stowed the holly-and-phoenix-feather wand in a harness on his left side, sheathed the Sword of Gryffindor on the same side, and raised his hands to show that he meant no harm. Of course, the fact that he had an entire discipline of magic to fall back on that didn't use conductors rendered this gesture a bit misleading and disingenuous, but he said, "I'm a friend. I mean you no harm. You've been here a long time, but the outside world needs you. You need to come back."

The wand remained pointed with a steady hand at Harry's head.

"Your name," she said, not to be distracted.

He gave as low of a bow as he dared, keeping a wary eye on her. What to say? Would she believe that a wizard could do what he had—restore some semblance of sense to her mind, and make his way through the depths of madness, then through the maze, and, if he succeed, back out again? Would she remember anything that happened here? There were no historical accounts to guide his actions, no knowledge to fall back on. He was on his own.

He needed her to trust him. His parents had both been in the Order. But, she must have known what had happened, on Hallowe'en….

"Harry Potter," he said.

"I'm not an idiot. Harry Potter is only a baby," she snapped, in return. "No older than my Neville—"

She cut herself off, perhaps to regain control over her shaking hand, or her trembling voice. Show no weakness? He could respect that. He affected not to notice.

"I'm sixteen, same as Neville," he said. For want of better proof, he pulled aside his bangs, revealing the lightning-bolt scar that he generally went out of his way to hide. Alice Longbottom shook all over, in response.

"You're—you're Harry Potter?" she demanded. "That's not Polyjuice, or something?"

"We're in the heart of your mind," he said. "I have to play by your rules. And, no concealment can hide anything from you."

Indeed, he had to be careful not to tell her any lies. He rather suspected that she'd know if he lied, unlike in the outside world, where he could fool almost anyone. She might have a sort of built-in lie detector, herself, being an auror, as she was.

"You've been trapped here, in the middle of your mind, for fifteen years. More or less."

He didn't know exactly when the attack that had cost the Longbottoms their sanity had occurred. Records of the event were scarce and hard to come by. Much more fuss had been made concerning the trial of the Death Eaters responsible. It was almost as if the Ministry had wanted to respect the family, what remained of it, in their period of mourning. But, this was the Ministry we're talking about.

"Your son is waiting out there, in the outside world. You've missed over a decade of his life, but you've still got time."

He had eleven nights a year to spend with his mother, and no time at all for his dad. But, if he could give Neville better….

"Sirius Black is innocent, by the way. It was Peter Pettigrew who betrayed my Mum and Dad. They arrested him, put him on trial, everything. He's dead now, though. He revived Riddle, and now the Wizarding World is back at war. We need you. Neville needs you. The Order needs you."

He stuffed his hands into his pockets, in a gesture borrowed from Sirius.

"The Order…" Alice began. She shook her head. "The Order can go hang. You say I'm trapped in my own mind? That I've been here for over a decade?"

"I'm sixteen," Harry repeated.

"Why has it taken over a decade for anyone to come for me, then? Surely, they put me in St. Mungo's, after…."

She trailed off, eyes widening, as if she just remembered the circumstances that had brought her hither. Perhaps, she had.

"And you—why are you here, instead of a healer?"

Harry did not make a smart comment about how he knew a little bit about healing, himself, grace of his mother's teaching. Regardless of how relevant and accurate it was for the discussion at hand. She was not stupid. She'd asked just the question he hadn't wanted anyone to ask.

He bowed his head, staring down at his feet. "…It's complicated," he said.

She folded her arms, and narrowed her eyes, wand pressed into her side in a gesture that reminded him of Mrs. Weasley.

"We should go," he decided, starting to turn to the entrance whence he'd arrived. As good a choice as any other, right?

"Wait a minute," she said, with that arresting tone of reproach that only mothers seem able to pull off. "You haven't answered my question."

He resisted the urge to roll his eyes. "Don't you think there are more important things?" he asked hopefully.

She scoffed. "More important than building trust? Any organisation or team falls apart without trust."

She waited. There was no point in trying to outwait her. There didn't seem to be a direct correlation between time elapsed within and without a mind, but that didn't mean that he could afford to spend an infinite amount of time here, and her lack of awareness of just how long she'd been trapped here suggested that, within her own mind, at least, she might be able to outwait him. Besides, the gesture seemed petty and pointless, two things he was trying not to be.

"Full disclosure, then," he said, hoping that she wouldn't remember this once she was back in the real world. "My name is Loki. I'm the Norse God of Mischief and Lies."

She stared at him. Blinked. He called up the ghost light, again, and sent it up towards the ceiling of this place, which was higher than you might expect. It cast a pure white glow over the bigger-than-usual room at the heart of the maze. Wizarding magic couldn't do that.

"I can use a different sort of magic than wizarding magic. I came to help you to test a hypothesis of mine. You are an almost-accidental beneficiary."

He glanced at her, to see her gaping, apparently stunned speechless.

"You can't be claiming to be a god!" she cried, which seemed to be the standard response. He didn't bother pulling his hands out of his pockets to shrug.

"You said you were Harry Potter," she accused, next, eyes narrowed. He shrugged, again.

"I did say that it was complicated."

He knew it was bad to keep discussing the topic. The longer they discussed, the more likely it seemed that she'd remember when they finally got out of here.

In a burst of inspiration (or, perhaps, desperation), he remembered the crib he'd taken from the underwater village, reaching deep into his pockets to retrieve it and restore it to its ordinary size. He kept his eyes on Alice as he did, as if expecting her to disappear or to flee. (And mightn't she be better off fleeing; she might accidentally find her way out?)

He did not glance at it, as he restored it to its proper size, and laid it on the floor. He kept his gaze fixed upon Alice. He saw her eyes widen in recognition, the way her hands flew to her trembling mouth.

"Oh, no! Oh, Neville!" She fell to her knees, and he, keeping her in his vision, at last glanced down at the crib, which was not a crib at all, but a wooden doll, crafted with such expertise and of such fine wood that you could hardly tell it wasn't real.

Harry glanced down at the glassy blue eyes of the doll, and tried to wrench his gaze from a sobbing Alice Longbottom, and the doll, which lay quite still, as most dolls do. But, he was still watching Alice's minor breakdown as the doll faded away in the manner of ghosts in muggle horror stories.

Alice, predictably, rounded on him. She fixed him with a savage glare, rising to her feet. He held up his hands, again. "I had nothing to do with that doll's disappearance, and that wasn't Neville, anyway. You know I speak the truth. Don't you want to have the real Neville back?

"Neville is a friend of mine," he continued, stuffing his hands into his pockets, again, as if unperturbed. "I couldn't save my mum and dad, but if I could save his—"

Her expression softened. Tears glistened in her eyes. "Neville…?" she asked. "And—and Frank…?"

"You have to come back to them," he said, and removed a hand from its pocket to reach around for her.

"I'll go," she said, with a sharp laugh. "Better than staying in here, I would think."

Harry looked for the groove dug into the wall by the Sword of Gryffindor, and began to lead her back the way he'd come.

Naturally, this time the maze wasn't empty. He kept his ghost light moving ahead of them at all times, keeping it along the side of the wall to throw the grooves dug into the wood into deeper shadow, and make them easier to see.

Coming here, he'd encountered a series of more open areas, which often had three or more possible routes leading off them. Where before they were empty, now they had traps and monsters. It was infuriating, and somehow completely logical. The Cruciatus had driven her into her mind—or maybe she'd retreated here, herself. But, whatever force had driven her into the depths of her mind, it was reluctant to let her go.

Harry had centuries of combat training on his side, as well as the holly wand, and the ghost of the Sword of Gryffindor. Alice Longbottom had been an auror, and here in the depths of her mind, unaware of the passage of time, she retained the level of skill she had had then.

He beheaded a phantom manticore, with a sharp glare, watching the Sword of Gryffindor as it burnt through flesh like acid. It probably only did that because he'd observed it doing that in the physical world. No conclusions could be drawn of its abilities based on the behaviour of its ghost within the realm of someone else's mind.

"You seem to have a lot of practice fighting," Alice accused.

"Oh, yes," Harry agreed, with the sort of flippant carelessness that infuriated Stephen. "Here and there. One life and another. Manticores are easy. Hagrid bred monstrosities known as blast-ended skrewts. Plus, I've fought You-Know-Who, several times. Was chosen as the fourth champion of the Triwizard Tournament. Fought and defeated a basilisk when I was twelve. I have experience."

"I thought you were lying—about being a god," she said. "But, the more I think about it, the less incredible it seems."

He scowled at her. "Don't think about it. I'd rather you not make a scene if we make it out of here unscathed."

"You mean 'in one piece'?" she asked, with a smile. "Well, you didn't stab me in the back in our first battle. I guess I'll trust you."

There weren't any dementors in her mind, whether because a mind was naturally antithetical to the nature of a dementor, or because Alice didn't have the same aversion to them as Harry, he couldn't tell. They fought their way past gryphons and harpies, an enormous dragon that Harry couldn't speak to, try as he might (and Alice was giving him some quite odd looks at that), trolls and giants, and even a werewolf.

"But, you know, Remus Lupin is nothing like that," he said, staring with some resentment at the blood dripping off the Sword of Gryffindor. It was a sword made of silver, which everyone knew was the weapon of choice against night-creatures like werewolves and vampires.

Alice looked pensive, and he thought for a moment that she somehow hadn't known. Perhaps, he shouldn't have said that, but he'd felt a twinge of conscience, thinking of his friend and former professor. It had felt a betrayal and a murder. He'd had to say something.

"Remus is a good man, with a difficult curse," Alice agreed. "And, the Ministry has done nothing to make things easier for him."

"They're even worse now," he confided, and then he sheathed the Sword of Gryffindor, heedless of anything he'd ever learnt about the proper care of blades, and they continued on.

He spoke to her as they walked, telling her as much as he knew of the lay of the land, what had happened after she'd lost her mind. Most of her questions were about Neville. Harry had to admit ignorance to most of the answers, but that didn't seem to trouble her.

"If I get out of here, I can hear his answers with my own ears," she said. She was grinning, looking up towards the ceiling, full of wonder and hope.

They turned the corner, and here they were, at the entrance, the room that Harry always started at. Harry realised a dilemma.

"I know how to leave here, myself," he said. "And, I know from trial and error that it only works in this area. But: how to get you out—?"

The method he'd used to bring Snape out of his mind, or to leave his own mind, would doubtless not avail him. He'd grown used to the idea of turning the universe around him inside out, puckering it into a fold that tore and ejected him into the real world. It was possible that she could follow. It was possible that she'd somehow be dragged back into the heart of the maze. He didn't know.

"Just do whatever you usually do," Alice said, quite sensibly. "I'll grab a hold of you, and not let go, and that should bring me back, too."

Such a risk! She might become lost somewhere else on her person. She must have been a gryffindor.

Still…he was prone to overthinking things. He supposed that they might as well try this. It did seem rather risky, however.

"Hold on tight," he ordered her, and she wrapt hands around his arms with bruising force. He folded the space of her mind around him, until it tore, and spat him out.

He paused there for a moment, bent over the bed, eye contact still unbroken, and slowly leant back. Alice Longbottom lay there for several seconds, eyes unfocused, and then, slowly, pushed herself into a sitting position. She turned to him, and stared.

"…dream?" she asked, in a fragile, paper-thin whisper. He considered the merits of saying "yes". Decided against it.

"I could try to fix Frank," he offered, instead.

She stared at him. "Yes, please. And, I—I will be…slow…." She frowned, by which he assumed that that wasn't the word she'd wanted. "I will seem to recover gradually. I will learn. I will understand. I will regain my strength, and return to the world. Yes. And, Frank will be there, too, before I am done. There is still time—"

"It took weeks, just to restore your mind enough to find you in that maze. For all I know, it will take longer with your husband."

She stared at him with unfocused eyes. "I will wait." She waved a hand towards him. He glanced at it, and then away. "I have been given a gift. I must not squander it with haste. I have time. Act too quickly, and the Death Eaters will return to finish what they've started, whilst I am still defenceless. And, Frank still knows nothing. Thank you, Harry. You have given me…more than I can express."

"I'll start next week. If that's okay with you."

She stared at him, and the corners of her mouth turned up, just slightly. "Sounds good. You'll do well. Thank you, Harry."

She closed her eyes, and went to sleep. Fighting monsters, after all, was probably difficult work.

He knew Ron had been watching and listening, and was proven right when Ron asked for no updates or explanations. "Do not overtax yourself, Brother," he said. "This is dangerous work."

"But worth it," Harry said, with a smile. Ron did not gainsay him. Perhaps, he understood, after all.