The Hogwarts Express pulled into the station, significantly shorter than Harry remembered it, with only five cars. He supposed that more would be unnecessary. Most people had already gone home by floo throughout the week, leaving only the muggle-borns and people like Harry whose guardians didn't have their own private floo and didn't care enough to arrange to use somebody else's.
Harry stood shivering on the platform next to Oliver and Hermione, bathed in silver light from Professor McGonagall's tabby patronus, which frolicked amongst the students, wearing a Cheshire grin. There weren't any dementors about. The day was just rainy and gloomy all on its own. Harry couldn't even spell himself impervious to the weather, because Professor McGonagall was standing right there and they technically weren't supposed to do magic outside of school.
"How long do you think we'll have to wait?" Oliver asked, staring longingly into the lit windows of the train.
"It took us about ten minutes to get down here, so probably another twenty," said Hermione. The remaining students had still been too numerous for the professors to easily protect all at once, so they had had to ride the carriages down in shifts. Professor McGonagall was the only teacher at the station, tasked with all their safety, and she had made them all stay on the platform for easier oversight.
"Twenty minutes, and this nightmare will finally be over," Oliver mumbled.
"We could still get attacked on the train," Harry pointed out. In fact, he was rather nervous about the possibility, given that it was going to be a train full of muggle-borns. He had done his best to sift through the orders the Dark Lord had given to the dementors, and found nothing about the Hogwarts Express, but that didn't mean anything. Dementors weren't the only resource the Dark Lord had at his disposal.
Oliver groaned. "Did you really have to say that?"
"Dementors can't move that quickly," Hermione reassured him.
Harry decided to keep silent on the matter, and instead said, "Do you want to sit together?"
Oliver agreed instantly. He patted his trunk. "I've got Monopoly."
"Perfect. That'll take the whole train ride," said Harry. He glanced expectantly to Hermione, who nodded.
"That sounds good. I haven't got any reading material anyway. I don't understand why Madam Pince won't let us check anything out over the summer," she muttered.
Harry had had to return his library books as well, but he wasn't concerned. He would have an even grander library available to him soon.
"You could get a library membership at the Athenaeum of the Alleys," he told Hermione.
"There's a public library, you mean?" she demanded.
Harry shook his head. "It's not public, exactly. You've got to pay to join."
"How much is it?" Hermione asked.
"Twenty galleons, I think?" Harry said, scrunching up his nose. He couldn't quite remember. "That's per year."
Hermione furrowed her brow, counting off on her fingers. "That's nearly half a year of allowance. I might have enough saved up, but I'll have to check."
A wave of incredulity hit Harry at her casual wealth, but when he tried to share a moment with Oliver, he remembered that the other boy was muggle-born too, and also had no idea how much money was worth.
"You're all right with how the exchange rate works, then?" Harry couldn't help asking Hermione, remembering how up in arms she had been about unknowingly taking from the fund for the needy.
She grimaced. "Sorry, you're right. I forgot. I shouldn't be using that money for extracurricular things. But what if it's for homework?"
Though the students were all being sent home, and wouldn't be allowed to do magic unsupervised, they would still be owlled written assignments each week to complete, so that they would not be too far behind when they returned. Harry rolled his eyes.
"You won't need more than your textbooks for those," he said.
"I hate that we have to write essays, but we aren't allowed to practise magic at home," Oliver muttered.
"Doesn't everyone?" Harry agreed. He glanced to Professor McGonagall to see that she wasn't looking their way and added, in a low voice, "If you really want to do magic, though, just go to a public place like Diagon Alley. The Trace doesn't work when there are adults around."
"I've heard that," Oliver said, "but London's way too far away from where I live."
Hermione groaned. "Oh, that's right, I'll be in France this summer, so I couldn't take advantage of the library anyway."
A shout rang through the air. Harry looked up. Four thestral-drawn carriages approached, escorted by a silver hawk and doe. It definitely hadn't been twenty minutes. The carriages must have made the return trip to the castle at much higher speeds.
At once, the gathered students erupted into a renewed round of complaints.
"Can we get on the train now?"
"I'm freezing. At this rate we'll all catch cold."
"There aren't even any dementors around."
"We won't all fit on the platform."
Professor McGonagall finally relented, and the train doors snapped open with a rickety bang. Harry waited for older students to finish shoving their way in before he ventured towards the nearest entrance.
"Let's find some other people to play with," Oliver suggested.
With the diminished number of cars, it was easy to traverse the entire length of the train. They quickly found Dean Thomas and Colin Creevey sitting in their own compartment. Harry cringed as Oliver knocked on the door. He hadn't seen Colin since running out of the party last week.
"Hey, do you two want to play Monopoly with us?" Oliver asked, and quickly secured enthusiastic agreement.
"Hey," Harry said awkwardly to Colin as he shuffled inside, shutting the door behind him. "Sorry about the other day."
"Oh! No worries," said Colin, beaming at him. "It was a good show, actually. I never knew getting your fortune told could be so dramatic. You were really great."
Harry blinked, feeling a vague spike of nausea. It passed. "Right. Good."
Oliver had unlatched his trunk and produced the promised board game. Harry turned around to help set it up, transfiguring the box into a long slab of wood that they placed across the gap in the seats to serve as a makeshift table.
"We're not supposed to do magic," Hermione said, predictably.
Harry rolled his eyes. "No one's watching. I want to be the pipe." He reached out and snatched up the little silver piece before sitting down across from her. "Do you reckon we can animate these?"
He desisted at Hermione's stormy look, and they played the game like muggles. Hermione volunteered to be the banker. She then proceeded to somehow buy Mayfair and Park Lane and set up a hotel empire. Harry went to jail twice in a row and lost all his money landing on Mayfair in short order.
"This luck," he groaned, tossing his piece back into its little bag. "Wish I knew arithmancy better."
"That would definitely be cheating," said Hermione, who was rolling in paper cash and could have afforded having some of her good fortune siphoned off. "Luck-influencing magic is strictly banned in all sporting events and games."
Harry sighed and sat back, glancing out the window at the verdant hills rolling by, hoping to see a cow. No such luck. The stormclouds had cleared, or else the train had outrun them, and soupy sunlight stung his eyes. He shut them and rested his forehead against the cool glass.
He found himself striding along a wooded path, so overgrown with bramble as to be nearly indistinguishable from the deep forest itself. Still, the sharp gravel between his toes and the lingering tang of old malice in the air left enough of a trail to follow.
An oversight, he thought, disintegrating the stones beneath his feet into fine soil with each step. The thorns curled away from him, shy, creeping back into place in his wake with quiet awe. He drank away the bitter darkness until the sunlight that danced across his skin shone with warm brilliance.
Abruptly, he came upon a shack. It was a proper ruin now, half reclaimed by nature, a hulking stone corpse crawling with ivy and moss.
Harry stepped forward to the door, wading through a sea of nettles that caressed him with a sibilant whisper. His eyes immediately found the serpent on the door, nailed by its neck and dead even longer than the house. That wouldn't do.
It crumbled to dust under his disapproving stare, leaving behind a rusty nail. Another moment of consideration, and the nail, too, was gone. He glared at the warped wood of the door until it began to waver under the intensity of his regard.
"Open," he said, voice as clear as an alpine stream. The boards sighed, boiling and hissing until they arced to either side, opening a dark hollow like a great knot in a decaying tree. Harry stepped inside, inhaling the earthy scent of nature's effacing hand. This place had lain undisturbed for many decades.
Still. He had not come all this way only to rely upon presumption and assumption at the last. He ventured deeper into the wreckage. It was twilight inside, the diffuse rays of the sun struggling to navigate through warped, grime-encrusted panes and a canopy of glistening webs. There was magic lingering here too, confused, desperate, resentful.
Harry raised a hand. A maelstrom of dust puffed up around him as the last tenuous threads of emotion shattered. He settled it with a stern look, surveying the interior of the cramped hovel. Before him stood a surprisingly intact square table, stacked with rusty pots and a chipped china tea set whose pattern was lost beneath a smooth glaze of dirt. In the corner, a filthy armchair festered, damp and green, the fine net of a rotted blanket tangled across it. Harry closed his eyes and listened.
'Over here.'
The pattern of the floorboards burned themselves into his mind's eye, a thousand intertwined, sinuous bodies surging across each other, devouring and being devoured, a symphony of beginning and end.
"Show me," said Harry, like the ringing of bell. He knelt down. The wood parted like water around his blindly reaching hand until he grasped a box, wooden too, but smooth with lacquer. He opened his eyes. A dodecahedron lay in his palm, stained with an uneven patchwork of golden paint. The patterns swam before him, wriggling in delighted anticipation.
"Open," he commanded, and the box bloomed like a poisonous flower, untwisting into a cage of brilliant petals and vines. Around its stamen was nestled a gleaming golden ring, set with the blackest of stones. It winked up at him, carved with a familiar symbol: a circle, inscribed inside a triangle, bisected by a vertical line.
'Help me,' the flower seemed to sigh.
"No," said Harry, smiling as he pressed up against the wood with both hands. The corolla shuddered and curled back up, its round edges sharpening until its chaos was again constrained, a vibrating snarl of imprisoned impulse. He pressed it back into the embrace of the earth.
Harry woke with a gasp, heart pounding and brow slick with sweat as sharp spasms of relief wracked his body. He was safe, alive. Of course he was. It had just been a weird dream, not even a nightmare, and he was on the train with his face pressed up to the vibrating glass. Still, he felt a bone-deep lightness, as if he had just been liberated from devastating terror.
He waited a moment, breathing deeply and carefully not thinking about anything. The details of the dream did not collapse into a reassuring, incoherent soup. He remembered walking through the forest, going into a creepy, ruined house, and digging up an evil-looking flower box which had had an even eviller-looking ring inside.
All right. So maybe the Dark Lord liked to go treasure-hunting in the woods for fun. That was none of Harry's business.
The ring had had Grindelwald's signature on it.
Harry sat up too quickly and groaned as his neck cramped horribly.
"All right, Harry?" asked Colin. Harry glanced over to the Monopoly board as he kneaded at the painful knots that had accumulated in his sleep.
"Fine. You lot are still playing?" he asked. "What time is it?" He felt muggy, as if he had slept a long while.
"We started a new game," said Oliver with an apologetic shrug. "Didn't want to wake you, though."
Harry nodded, checking the time with his wand. They were about three hours into the trip.
"Do you want to join?" Hermione asked, already reaching for some bank notes.
"No, it's all right," Harry mumbled. He turned around and climbed onto his seat, teeth rattling with the rhythm of the train as he reached for his trunk. Unlatching it carefully, he poked the tip of his wand inside. "Accio Tales of Beedle the Bard."
There was a muffled thump and clang, and Harry felt something hard bump into his knuckles. He stowed his wand and grabbed the summoned book, pleased with himself. That was probably his best summoning charm to date.
"What book is that?" Hermione asked.
"Fairy tales," said Harry.
She craned her neck to peer at the title. "Grimms'?"
"No, they're wizard tales, by Beedle the Bard," Harry told her.
"I didn't know there were wizard fairy tales," Hermione said, frowning. "Can I borrow that when you're done?"
Harry shrugged, figuring she could easily finish the thin volume before the train ride ended. "Sure."
He tugged on the string trailing from the pages, and the book fell open to the 'Tale of the Three Brothers', where Luna's pendant still rested. Harry hadn't deemed it a good idea to go around wearing a symbol of Grindelwald around his neck in public, so he'd left it as a bookmark.
It was definitely the same symbol that had been on the ring the Dark Lord had unearthed. That probably didn't mean anything. Maybe it used to belong to Grindelwald or one of his followers. It was really none of Harry's business.
Except, Harry had seen the stone in the ring before. It was the size of a pebble, smooth, black. He turned the page.
'Meanwhile, the second brother journeyed to his own home, where he lived alone. Here he took out the stone that had the power to recall the dead, and turned it thrice in his hand.'
He had seen the stone before in a mirror, in his hand. Turned thrice. His parents, resurrected.
Harry shook his head and shut the book. He was being ridiculous. Even if the stone from the tale really existed, and even if it was the very stone in the Dark Lord's ring, that hardly meant anything. Harry had resurrection stones of his own, and he knew it wasn't as simple a matter as just turning them over in his hand.
"Here," he said, putting the book of fairy tales on the empty seat by Hermione. He slipped the pendant into his pocket.
"Oh, thanks. You're done already?" she said.
"I'm going back to sleep," Harry told her, leaning back in his seat and trying to position his head more comfortably. He closed his eyes.
He found himself back in front of the shack, swimming in nettles and moonlight. The door was old and warped, pockmarked but still solid under his hand.
"Open," he said, but his voice was furtive, weak. He thought suddenly of the snake, though there was no snake nailed to the door any longer. "Open," he said again, and the wood slithered apart.
The house screamed a woman's scream.
Harry ran inside, stirring up great clouds of dust. He coughed and sneezed, hearing footsteps and laughter and more screaming.
"No, please, not Harry!"
'I'm right here!' He wanted to shout, but his words choked to death in the dust.
"Please, help me!"
Hacking up his lungs, Harry crawled over the rotted wood. Sinuous shadows danced in his blurry vision. The woman screamed again. He had to help her.
He dug into the floorboards, blunt fingertips scrabbling in the damp, spongy wood and breaking through to musty soil. Deeper, deeper.
Lines of gold swam beneath his fingers, a massive web. Screams echoed along each strand and up his arms, into his chest, and Harry was screaming too. He clawed at the ground, tunnelling in abandon; he was an earthworm; he was the earth itself; he was caught in the web.
Or was he the spider?
The spider was a flower, golden, magnificent. Its sepals peeled back and revealed a woman. She smiled with Harry's eyes.
"Mum," Harry croaked, and woke up.
He coughed, pitching forward as he gasped for air. It took his lungs a few moments to notice that there was in fact nothing obstructing his breath.
Four pairs of eyes turned to him, and Harry flushed. "Don't mind me. I'm just choking on nothing."
"You all right?" asked Hermione.
Harry nodded.
"I finished your book, by the way," Hermione said. "I put it back in your trunk for you. I really liked how it had runes on one page and plain English on the next. Have you seen other books that are like that?"
Harry shrugged. He had just completely ignored the part that was in runes.
"I read ahead on ancient runes a bit, and apparently they aren't phonetic. Well, they are, but wizards don't use them like that. Each rune is actually a meaning fragment, and they're combined to form longer words with more complex ideas. And you don't write them with a quill, either—you're supposed to make them with your wand, like a spell. Isn't that fascinating?" Hermione gushed. "I'm so excited for that class."
"I don't really know anything about it," said Harry. "But that does sound interesting."
"I can't wait for school to start again," Hermione sighed, earning incredulous looks all around.
"You did not just say that," Dean muttered. "We're not even off the train."
"Even I think that's going too far, and I'm a Ravenclaw," Oliver added.
"Seconded," Harry agreed. Hermione rolled her eyes and glanced away, cheeks pink.
"We better change out of our robes," she mumbled. "I think we're nearly there."
She stood up and proceeded to tug the collar of her robe over her head then and there.
"Hermione!" Dean squeaked.
Hermione laughed. "Don't worry, I'm wearing clothes underneath. I can step out though, if you lot need some privacy."
Dean shrugged. "I'm wearing regular clothes underneath too."
"Me too," said Oliver.
"Me three," said Colin.
When everybody looked expectantly at Harry, he jumped. "It's fine. I mean, I don't need to change. I live in the Alleys."
"Like Diagon Alley?" Colin asked, wide-eyed.
Harry nodded. "Near there."
Dean, meanwhile, wiggled his eyebrows. "Sure," he said, "But are you wearing anything underneath?"
Harry spluttered. "I wear trousers," he insisted, to a chorus of snickering.
Speaking of trousers, he thought he might need new ones. He'd probably needed new ones since forever, seeing as he was still wearing the single pair of Dudley's hand-me-downs that he'd had for years and kept barely serviceable with scouring charms. It had never occurred to him to try to replace them, even though the originally high-quality fabric was starting to wear thin. He imagined that if he asked Petri, the man would scoff and tell him to stop wearing unnecessary muggle clothing entirely.
He needed new shoes too. His tatty trainers were getting cramped, and there was a small hole in the toe that the mending charm hadn't been able to fill in, probably because there wasn't enough material to go around. This, at least, was not Petri's fault. He'd tried taking Harry to the cordwainer before, but Harry had baulked at the rows of hard wooden clogs, knee-high boots, and high heels decorated with elaborate ribbons and roses.
Harry glanced at everybody else's feet. Dean and Colin wore trainers like his, only newer-looking. Oliver had on scuffed Oxfords, and Hermione sensible Mary Janes. All muggle shoes.
A shadow fell over them as the train rolled into the station, screeching to a stop. Harry glanced out the window and did a double take. He had never seen Platform Nine and Three-Quarters so empty on arrival. There were maybe a dozen people scattered about, most at the edge of the platform and a few hanging further back. Harry spotted Lupin near the end of the platform with his thestral tied to a pillar not too far away.
Hermione waved out the window, presumably spying her parents.
"I don't see my dad," said Oliver, leaning over Harry to scan the platform. "He's probably outside."
"I didn't know muggles could even get inside. My mum couldn't," said Dean.
"They can, but they've got to run at the barrier and believe they'll come out the other side, like the rest of us," Hermione explained. "My dad had to practise a few times before he could manage it."
Harry shuffled to the side and let the others have their turn at the window, moving to grab his luggage. He glanced at Hermione, saw that she was suitably distracted, and muttered "Leviosa," with a practised flick, grinning as his trunk settled lightly in his hand.
Lupin spotted Harry instantly as he disembarked, and waved him over. The werewolf was dressed as shabbily as ever in threadbare robes covered in subtly stitched patches. As Harry approached, Lupin reached out with gloved hands to take his trunk, raising an eyebrow as it flopped weightlessly in his grip.
"Not even off the train and already doing underage magic?" he asked.
"I might've done the charm while I was still at Hogwarts," Harry protested.
"You might've," Lupin agreed, chuckling in clear disbelief. He ushered Harry over to the thestral, patting its shoulder. "Up you get."
It was the first time Harry had ridden the thestral instead of just following it on a broomstick. Its ridged back was covered in a surprisingly soft layer of downy fur that cradled him comfortably. He leaned forward to hug its silky mane as Lupin took the reins and vaulted deftly into place behind him.
"Disillusionment?" Harry asked.
"No need," said Lupin. "Muggles won't be able to see us while we're riding."
"Not even if they've seen death?"
"Not even then," Lupin confirmed.
Without warning, the thestral shot into the air almost vertically, barely clearing the end of the train tunnel. Harry slid backwards alarmingly, but was stopped by Lupin's solid presence. Once they were in the sky, a sense of almost weightless stability settled over him. It wasn't like riding a broom—he had no control over the thestral's movement—but though they hurtled through air at high speed, they were somehow protected from the full force of wind and gravity.
Muggle London sprawled beneath them in a green and grey patchwork. As they approached the muddy snake that was the Thames, Harry glimpsed the shimmering veil that marked the edge of one world and the start of the next. They passed through it in a rush of perspective and suddenly they were inside a sphere miles across, surrounded by an endless abyss of sky on all sides.
The thestral swooped low, and the edge of the world vanished from view behind a hilltop. An explosive wave of cold broke over them, like they'd plunged into a deep well. Harry gasped in realisation. There were dementors in Diagon Alley. He didn't know why he was surprised. He'd seen the Dark Lord's orders for himself, after all.
The wide, flat roof of Gringotts hosted a whole contingent of them, huddled up like massive crows that rained mist and gloom down onto the streets below. Lupin shot an enormous four-legged patronus into their midst, sending them scattering onto nearby buildings instead. Pedestrians' heads whipped around at the commotion. Fortunately, the thestral was swift to carry them out of sight, past the square in Horizont and over a sea of Knockturn rooftops. Here the dementor presence dwindled quickly to nothing.
They approached the graveyard, but rather than banking as expected, the thestral shot right past it. Harry twisted around in confusion, wondering suddenly whether he was being kidnapped again. Lupin's arms on either side of him suddenly felt like a cage.
His suspicions turned out to be unfounded. They soon landed in a patch of overgrown grass that might have once been a paved courtyard, behind a dilapidated block of flats. A fence of misshapen iron rods poked up around the perimeter like a giant's used toothpicks.
"Your teacher is probably still asleep," Lupin said, sliding off the thestral's back and helping Harry down, taking his trunk as well, "so I thought it might be better if we stopped by my place first. Have you eaten?"
Harry shook his head. "Not yet." He'd slept through the trolley lady's rounds on the train, though it wasn't as if she ever had anything more substantial than overpriced sweets on offer.
The thestral turned its long neck around and nosed at Lupin's free hand.
"All right, we'll get you both fed," he said, addressing the thestral, which snorted and licked his glove. He turned to Harry and gestured for him to follow. They trudged through the ankle-deep grass up to the brick building, where they ascended a narrow, creaky staircase that wound around the outside. Lupin's flat was on the third floor.
Harry glanced sceptically down towards the courtyard. The thestral stood where they had left it, staring up at them with eerie expectation.
"Is there a stable or something?" Harry asked.
"Hm?" Lupin followed Harry's gaze. "Oh, no. Tellus lives in the woods around here with his family."
Harry furrowed his brow. "Tellus—that's his name? Can he talk?"
"Talk?" Lupin laughed. "No. Thestrals are very clever, but they're still only animals. I named him Tellus, after the happiest man in the world."
"There's a happiest man in the world?" Harry repeated, flummoxed. Lupin only laughed harder as he unlocked the door to his flat and ushered him inside.
"It's a Greek story," he explained. "The King of Lydia thought himself to be the happiest man in the world because he was rich and powerful. But the statesman Solon disagreed and said that the happiest man in the world was Tellus, who lived to see his family flourish and died gloriously in battle."
"How can he be happy if he's dead?" Harry wanted to know.
"He lived well and died honourably—why wouldn't he be happy?" said Lupin after a moment, his voice suddenly hoarse. "Anyway, make yourself at home. I'm going to get some dead rats for Tellus to munch on."
He set Harry's trunk down by the worn welcome mat at the threshold and ventured through a door across the room. Harry saw the corner of a counter and chequered linoleum flooring and figured that it led to the kitchen.
The parlour was the same as Harry remembered it—a shabby couch, a low table piled with books and newspapers, and a brick fireplace with a chipped hearth took up most of the narrow rectangular room. The walls were papered in a faded yellowish chevron pattern that might have once been bright and welcoming, but now looked dirty. There was a small window right by the front door, framed by threadbare red curtains. Harry's false hand ached with the memory of the last time he'd been here. He shook his head and shook out the hand, for good measure, clenching and unclenching his fist.
He'd been horrible about not using it. Sure, he hadn't cast any magic with it, but he couldn't count how many times he'd found himself reaching for something with his right hand and had to hastily stop himself. He was sure there were even more times when he simply hadn't noticed.
The fire flared green, and Harry jumped.
"Mr Lupin, the floo!" he shouted. He tensed, wondering if somebody was coming through, but the flames shaped themselves into a familiar, bearded head.
"Professor Dumbledore?" Harry blurted, stepping closer until he was up against the back of the couch.
"Not professor any longer, I'm afraid, Harry," said Dumbledore with a wistful sigh.
"Sorry," said Harry. "They shouldn't have sacked you."
Dumbledore shook his head. "Oh no, they were quite right to sack me. I am guilty of everything they accuse me of."
"Albus!" said Lupin, hurrying back into the room, a creaky metal bucket in hand. He knelt in front of the hearth. "Sorry, I wasn't expecting you. Is there—is everything all right?" He glanced to Harry, who took an awkward step back. There wasn't really anywhere to go to give Lupin and Dumbledore privacy.
"Everything is fine, Remus. I was actually hoping to catch young Mr Potter here," said Dumbledore.
Lupin seemed taken aback. "Harry?"
"May I come through?" asked Dumbledore.
"Yes, of course," said Lupin, making room in front of the fireplace. Dumbledore's fiery visage extinguished itself momentarily, before green flame flared in the grate again and the ancient wizard came tumbling out feet first. He righted himself with a graceful twist, vibrant pinstriped robes billowing around him.
"Thank you, my boy," he said. "I apologise for the impromptu visit."
"You're always welcome. Can I get you something to drink?" asked Lupin.
"Don't trouble yourself," said Dumbledore, conjuring up an entire tea set with a twist of his wand. "I've invited myself over rather rudely, so you must feel free to go about your day as if I weren't here at all."
He conjured himself a floral-patterned armchair as well, sinking heavily onto it.
"Right. I'll just go pop down to feed my thestral, then," said Lupin with an apologetic smile, and at Dumbledore's nod, he disappeared out the front door with his bucket.
Harry edged around the couch, sitting down across from Dumbledore. The lumpy cushion sagged under his weight, and he thought he could feel the outline of the wooden frame pressing against his legs.
"You wanted to talk to me, sir?"
Dumbledore nodded, his mouth a grim line. "Yes, and this is no social call, I'm afraid, though I am glad to see you well. Please, have some tea. I would like your help in investigating a certain, rather disquieting mystery. Are you up to answering a few questions?"
"Of course, sir," Harry said, accepting a teacup that was meandering towards him. He hadn't seen Dumbledore add any milk or sugar, but it was perfectly to his taste. "Thanks."
"Thank you, Harry. I shall get straight to the point then. Since the last time we met, have you noticed any lapses in your memory?"
Alarm sparked in Harry's chest. "Like if I were memory charmed?"
"Not quite," said Dumbledore. "I should think that it would be more obvious. A clear loss of time. Inexplicable fatigue, perhaps. For instance, going to bed at a reasonable hour and waking up exhausted the next morning."
Harry felt his stomach drop. "Yes," he breathed, after a moment. "Not memory loss, but the fatigue thing. But I thought that was just the vampire curse. I went to Madam Pomfrey and she gave me blood, and it helped."
"That may very well be the case," Dumbledore reassured him, though his unsmiling eyes betrayed worry. "Nonetheless, I must ask: do you remember having any strange dreams? Nightmares, perhaps?"
"I suppose," Harry said, staring intently at the bridge of Dumbledore's nose. He knew without a doubt that if he let on to Dumbledore about his visions of Voldemort's deeds and thoughts, he would be signing his own death warrant. At the same time, he couldn't lie outright. Dumbledore was an accomplished legilimens. So he added, "Sir, what are you getting at?"
Dumbledore sighed, sagging visibly in his seat. "I spoke with the dementors on behalf of the Ministry today and they informed me that Lord Voldemort had been the one to let them into Hogwarts. Of course, there is no way for Voldemort himself to have set foot in the castle, in his own body, that I could have overlooked. That leaves few other possibilities."
Harry's heart thudded against his ribcage. Dumbledore had talked to the dementors. Dementors had no concept of keeping secrets, not in a human sense. They had no eyes and they thought that Harry was Voldemort.
Burning with the understanding of how close to ruin he had come, Harry said, "You think Voldemort possessed me?"
"I'm afraid so," said Dumbledore. Maybe he was even right. It didn't matter; Harry was probably radiating guilt. He had to say something.
"I haven't been good about the hand," he blurted, confessing to a lesser crime. He couldn't let Dumbledore see the truth. "I've tried, really, sir, but I'm right-handed. I keep accidentally using it, just to pick things up, or open doors—"
"It's all right, Harry," Dumbledore told him, and Harry chanced a moment of eye contact. Dumbledore's gaze was clear, sincere. "It's not your fault. Having once been subject to possession makes you vulnerable to future possession."
"Is there anything I can do about it?" Harry asked, staring into his tea.
Dumbledore did not answer for a long moment. Finally, he said, "There is a chance that it goes both ways."
Startled, Harry couldn't help looking up again. "You mean, sir, that I could… possess Voldemort?" The words felt dangerous, almost sacrilegious.
Dumbledore nodded, taking a sip of tea. "Hypothetically," he began, with emphasis, "if you were to catch him at the mind's weakest moment, at the border between wakefulness and sleep, you might find yourself in a position to slip through his defences."
"But sir, I don't know legilimency," Harry protested.
"It would not be legilimency," said Dumbledore. "If I am right, and forgive me a moment of hubris, but I am inclined to think that I am, then you and Voldemort share a unique connection. Rather than intruding into his mind, you would instead need to find and follow that connection to its source."
"I don't understand. How?" Harry suddenly had the horrible feeling that Dumbledore knew everything, and was just toying with him.
But Dumbledore's genial tone did not slip. If anything, it gentled, and he sounded almost sheepish. "Alas, putting conjecture into practice is never as easy as it is in an old man's imagination. Forgive me for getting ahead of myself. You wanted to know whether there is some way to defend against possession… the only method that comes to mind would be to make your mental landscape utterly incompatible with Voldemort's, to the point that he cannot muster coherent thought while in your head."
This sounded even less concrete to Harry than the possibility of invading Voldemort's body. His dismay must have shown on his face, because Dumbledore elaborated:
"You must focus completely on emotions he cannot understand, such as love and trust. That is, you would be at your strongest amongst your friends."
Harry blinked, trying to digest this peculiar advice. "I won't see my friends until Hogwarts starts again, though," he finally said. "Sir, do you think Hogwarts will open on time? You talked to the dementors, right? Were you able to get them to leave?"
"Hogwarts will open again. Of that, I have no doubt," said Dumbledore. "The dementors will have no emotions to feed on over the summer. They will soon grow restless and abandon their posts."
"But only some of the dementors need to stay there, right? The rest are running around all over the country, eating whatever they want, so won't they all be fed?" Harry protested.
"Not quite. Their ability to share minds weakens over long distances, and they cannot tolerate extended deprivation at the local scale," Dumbledore explained. "They will depart in time, or they will wither away."
Harry frowned. "So Hogwarts closed early to starve them out. But couldn't Professor McGonagall have just threatened the dementors with that plan and had them agree to clear off in the first place?"
"You forget that they are not acting on their own," said Dumbledore. "Voldemort has commanded them to stay as long as they can. I fear that he means to take advantage of this crisis in order to more permanently occupy Hogwarts with his forces in the future."
"Occupy Hogwarts?" Harry repeated. "Why? It's just a school."
Dumbledore's beard drooped. "Hogwarts is the future of our world. It would benefit Voldemort immensely to hold it hostage."
Harry did not think that Dumbledore was speaking figuratively. Lucius Malfoy's face, twisted with fear for his son, flashed in his mind's eye. "You mean, if people disagree with him, he could have their children tortured or killed."
Dumbledore inclined his head fractionally.
For a moment, Harry was glad that he had no family against whom he could be used as leverage. Then again, the Dark Lord seemed personally interested in him, which was arguably worse.
He remembered Hannah and Neville, who did have families. And what of people like Hermione?
"Sir, what's going to happen to muggle-borns?" Harry asked.
"If Voldemort succeeds, then they will be made unwelcome in our world. It is likely they will be forced to register with the Ministry, and their wands taken away," said Dumbledore.
"Like vampires," Harry realised, biting his lip. "But at least they can go back to living in the muggle world."
"Harry," Dumbledore began, the edge of concern in his voice.
"It's still awful," Harry said hastily. He couldn't imagine having to go back to live with Aunt Petunia and Dudley, with no magic, especially not when he'd indirectly been responsible for Uncle Vernon's death. The very idea of it made cold sweat bead on the back of his neck. "I just—I don't want anybody to have their wands taken away. Not muggle-borns, and not anyone else. I don't want things to get worse for people, but the way things are now isn't right either."
He chance another glance up, and saw that the lines in Dumbledore's face had relaxed. "Of course, Harry. But there are procedures in place for creating change. Laws are not set in stone, nor do they spring arbitrarily into being. Our society is far from perfect, but we are fortunate not to live under tyranny."
"Tyranny. That's what Lord Voldemort wants?" Harry asked. Such an ambition seemed almost banal.
"You tell me, Harry," said Dumbledore, his wrinkled fingers curling back around his teacup. "What does Voldemort want, in his heart of hearts?"
Harry stared at him, ordinary anxiety making the words stick in his throat.
"Your guess is as good as, likely better, than mine," Dumbledore added. "Voldemort has made many promises to his followers. It is transparent enough to everybody what would happen if he were to fulfil those promises. What Voldemort's ultimate goal is, however, has never been clear."
"He wants to live forever," Harry said, because that part was obvious. "He wants everybody to obey him. To fear him." He thought about what it was like to be the Dark Lord, to hold lives in the palm of his hand, to have his friends trembling before him in awe. "He wants to be revered, like a god."
Dumbledore hummed. "And what do you think of these goals, Harry?"
Harry blinked. "Sorry?"
"Do they appeal to you?" Dumbledore clarified.
"Not really. I don't care about living forever. I mean, I wouldn't mind getting to be as old as you are, sir." Harry grinned tentatively at Dumbledore, who chuckled. His smile flattened as he thought back to what Lupin had said about the happiest man in the world. Maybe it wasn't so ridiculous. He thought of having a mother and a father. "I want to have a family who loves me. I suppose I just want a normal life."
Dumbledore closed his eyes. "I'm sorry, Harry," he said, his voice thick. "Those are… you deserve that normal life."
Harry shrugged. "I won't get it, though."
"You must not lose hope," said Dumbledore.
"Sir, you don't really think it's likely that I'll come out of this with a long and happy life, do you? We already know that Voldemort is going to kill me." Harry stared into Dumbledore's eyes, willing him not to lie.
Dumbledore looked into his teacup. "I'm sorry, Harry," he said again.
Dumbledore was using him, Harry thought suddenly, like a doomed courier, to send oblique, many-layered messages to the Dark Lord. Harry was already destined to die at Voldemort's hand. There was no heightened danger to him from getting involved, because there was no way for him not to be involved in the first place. Dumbledore's shoulders were tense. That was what guilt looked like.
"It's all right, sir," Harry said. Indignation and resignation churned in his lungs. He breathed them out as a heavy sigh, casting around for something else to say. "By the way, I found out more about Voldemort's immortality."
This, Harry was pleased to see, was enough to wipe away the haze of pity that clung to Dumbledore's frame. The old man leaned forward in interest.
Harry continued, "I think he has something like a horcrux, but not exactly. It's an improved version that doesn't have the same issues. It's still some kind of treasured object, though."
Dumbledore's gaze was searching, and Harry couldn't help wondering if he'd made a mistake or said something really stupid. He took a gulp of tea to hide his face. When he resurfaced, he found Dumbledore's mouth set in a resigned grimace.
"Thank you, Harry," he said. "That is extremely helpful information. If indeed he has made a horcrux, I have suspicions as to what it might be."
"Really? What?" Harry asked, scooting up to the edge of his seat.
"I dare not say until I can make certain of it," said Dumbledore. "In the meantime, perhaps you can continue with your divination work. I think it likely that you are on the right path."
Harry nodded, feeling inexplicably nauseated. He drank more tea and his stomach settled.
"Do you think Mr Lupin should be back by now?" he asked, standing up to look out the window. There was no sign of Tellus or Lupin, though after some searching Harry did spot an abandoned metal bucket near the broken fence. A trickle of worry crept into his chest as he turned back around. "I don't see him anywhere."
"I shall check on him," said Dumbledore, rising and taking out his wand. Silver burst from its tip, coalescing into a brilliant bird that coruscated like the sun. Harry shielded his eyes from the glare as Dumbledore told it: "We have finished our conversation and await your return."
The patronus flapped its wings and shot through the door. Harry blinked the afterimage out of his eyes, finding the natural light dim in its wake.
"How do you send messages with the patronus charm, sir?" he asked. "I don't remember reading about that."
"That would be because it is my own invention, one which I have never publicised," said Dumbledore, eyes crinkling. "It isn't a difficult trick, but it does require a corporeal patronus. Have you attempted the charm before, Harry?"
"Hermione and I tried learning it," Harry told him. "We couldn't make it corporeal, though."
"But you were able to manage an incorporeal patronus?" Dumbledore asked.
Harry nodded. Dumbledore's eyes widened slightly at the confirmation.
"Commendable, at your age. It is a very difficult spell. Would you be amenable to demonstrating it for me? I may be able to give you some pointers," Dumbledore offered. Harry must have hesitated for too long, because Dumbledore added, "I should think that I qualify as adult supervision."
"It's not that," said Harry, who had honestly forgotten about the reasonable restriction of underage sorcery. "It's just that my patronus is a bit weird."
Dumbledore raised his eyebrows expectantly.
Shrugging, Harry took out his wand and took a deep breath, relaxing as well as he could and thinking of his usual memory of conjuring Ulrich. His mind automatically wandered to the dream of his mother and the sight of his parents in the enchanted mirror. His breath caught. He was travelling the path of success, slowly and steadily.
"Expecto patronum!" he shouted. Silver streaked from his wand in ribbons and curled around him. He whited out for a moment in buoyant euphoria, giggling madly.
Blinking and shivering, he noticed Dumbledore stooped over him, brow furrowed in concern. Harry groaned. He had fallen to the floor somehow, with his glasses askew. Dumbledore extended a hand and hauled him to his feet with surprising strength.
"Are you all right, my dear boy?" Dumbledore asked, stepping back.
Harry took a deep breath, trying to will away the pounding between his ears. His extremities tingled unpleasantly.
"I think so," he said, after a moment. "But yeah, that happens. Do you have any idea why my patronus does that, sir?"
"I admit, it isn't what I expected," Dumbledore began, fiddling with his beard. "May I ask what memory you are calling upon?"
Harry told him about it in vague terms, adding, "I asked Professor Flitwick about it before, and he mentioned that it's better to use a happy memory where I feel safe and protected. Only, I couldn't think of one, so I'm still using that one."
Dumbledore looked away sharply, like someone had struck him a physical blow. "I'm very sorry to hear that, Harry. Professor Flitwick's advice is correct, but in any case, it does not appear as if your choice of memory is the problem. I personally use a similar memory. Neither does your charmwork lack focus. In fact, if I am not mistaken, your patronus is already corporeal."
"What, really?" said Harry, furrowing his brow. "What is it then? A giant worm?"
"You misunderstand," said Dumbledore. "Corporeality does not refer to the animal form, but to the ability of the patronus to interact with the material world. That yours does not take shape is… unconventional, but no real barrier to its functionality. Am I correct in saying that the true issue is that your patronus does not act according to your direction?"
"Yes, sir. It just turns around and attacks me," Harry said.
Dumbledore stroked his beard. "I cannot claim to know for certain, but I suspect that Voldemort is again at fault here."
"What, how?" Harry demanded. "Is it the hand? The patronus is supposed to be cast with the entire body, right?"
"That is correct, but I doubt that a missing hand would pose any barrier. I have seen wizards with far fewer body parts case perfectly functioning patronuses. Have you heard of the story of the dark wizard Raczidian?" Dumbledore asked.
Harry groaned. "The one who got devoured by maggots? I thought that was an exaggeration."
"It is, but not in the way you might be thinking. As far as I am aware, it is true that Raczidian's patronus took the form of a swarm of maggots. However, he died not from its attack on him, but because he stood amongst hundreds of dementors and became a beacon."
Harry, who remembered using his own patronus to draw the attention of dementors, winced. "So he had the same problem as me? But why? Does that mean I'm evil?"
"No, Harry, of course you aren't evil. The patronus is a manifestation connected directly to the soul. My suspicion is that Voldemort's possession has left traces on your soul, traces which leave your patronus unable to recognise you as its summoner," said Dumbledore.
Harry frowned. How could mere traces be enough to make his spell fail as catastrophically as a fully-fledged dark wizard's? Was Dumbledore trying to make the situation sound less severe than it really was?
Before Harry could say anything else, silver light crashed through the ceiling and resolved into an enormous wolf. It opened its maw and spoke with Lupin's incongruously mild voice:
"I'll be back in five. At the grocer picking up a few things. Feel free to stay for dinner."
"I believe that that is my cue to leave," said Dumbledore, vanishing the tea set and his chair.
"But Mr Lupin invited you to stay," Harry protested.
Dumbledore nodded. "Mr Lupin is unfailingly polite, as always. I dare not impose myself further on him today, however, so I shall make myself scarce before he returns."
With that, he vanished the tea set and armchair and disapparated nearly soundlessly. Harry stared at the spot where he'd been, unsettled.
Lupin soon returned, as promised, and didn't seem surprised to see Dumbledore gone.
"He's a very busy man," he said, as Harry followed him into the kitchen. It was very narrow, almost U-shaped, with a rectangular counter down the centre and cupboards up to the ceiling. Lupin swung his basket of groceries onto the counter and unloaded a head of broccoli, three potatoes, and a large paper-wrapped parcel that Harry guessed was meat.
"He got sacked, though," Harry said. "What's he busy with now?"
"The Wizengamot is sitting every day this month," Lupin said, shaking his head. "I don't know much about politics, but I did hear that the Fusts are trying to push through some anti-werewolf legislation, and Dumbledore's been working hard to block it."
"Anti-werewolf," Harry repeated, something like the legalisation of werewolf hunting flashing alarmingly through his mind.
"Making it harder for us to find employment, and such," Lupin elaborated with a sigh.
Harry relaxed somewhat. "Oh. How does that work?"
"I expect we'll have to disclose the affliction when applying for a job," said Lupin.
"You mean that people won't hire you just because you're a werewolf?" Harry demanded. Then he remembered what people like Petri thought of half-breeds, and supposed it didn't seem that unlikely. Lupin nodded tiredly. Harry frowned. "Will you be all right? What do you do for a living, anyway?"
"The law hasn't passed yet," Lupin reminded him. "I do all sorts of things. Odd jobs, mostly, usually OWL tutoring or construction work. I can't stay in one position too long. People eventually connect the dots when you get sick every month on the full moon."
Lupin tugged a cutting board from a wall hook, produced a knife from a drawer, and began manually cutting the potatoes into large chunks.
"Oh. Can I help?" Harry asked. "What are you making?"
"Steak with mash. Could you put some water on to boil? Pot's in the third cupboard," Lupin said, jerking his head in its direction. Harry found a large, apparently steel pot in the indicated location.
"Is this muggle?" he asked, finding it altogether different from the cauldrons he was used to.
A look of chagrin crossed Lupin's face. "Ah, yes. Actually, your mum gave it to me. She and James inherited a lot of extra cookware after her—after your grandparents passed away, and, well…"
Harry nodded, moving to the sink to fill the pot up with water. Remembering Petri's trick, he set the pot on the counter and submerged the tip of his wand.
"Relashio," he muttered. The water came to a rolling boil.
"Harry!" Lupin admonished. "You're not supposed to do magic."
"Well how else was I meant to boil the water?" Harry demanded, looking around. It wasn't as if there was a muggle stove in the flat.
Lupin indicated the kitchen door. "Fireplace," he said.
Harry raised his eyebrows. "You cook in the fireplace? You're not going to make steak in the fireplace, are you? There are spells for that."
Lupin's eyes crinkled. "I'm afraid I'm not well-acquainted with culinary magic. I tend to prefer my meat very rare."
Harry nodded, tapping his chin in contemplation. "I wonder if I can eat raw meat too."
"I wouldn't recommend it," said Lupin mildly.
Harry remembered what Madam Pomfrey had said about drinking only human blood, and decided that Lupin was probably right.
"I don't know about fireplace steak, though. Let me cook it myself," Harry said, and when Lupin looked uncertain, added, "There's no problem with underage magic if you're supervising, is there?"
Lupin stalled by tipping his cutting board over the pot, plopping the potatoes into the hot water. Harry brought the now-cloudy liquid back to a boil with another revulsion jinx, earning himself an exasperated look. He flashed a guileless smile.
"Fine," Lupin said. "You shouldn't be so reliant on magic, though. It's a bad habit."
"How so?" Harry asked, frowning.
Lupin raised his eyebrows. "What will you do if you're without your wand, or amongst muggles?"
"A wizard is never without his wand," Harry claimed, and then, remembering the times he hadn't had his wand, amended this to, "Unless he just got kidnapped from his bed. And it's not like I don't know how to do things the muggle way. There's just no point when magic is easier."
"But is magic truly easier? You would have to master quite a few spells just to cook a simple meal, and none of them nearly as straightforward as doing it manually," Lupin pointed out.
"I suppose it's not exactly easier," Harry allowed. Culinary spells required a lot of knowledge and precision to apply properly. For example, boiling pasta in a pot of water on a stove was a brainless task, but boiling it with only a wand required well-timed hydration and heat application to avoid soggy or burnt results. "But it's more convenient. You don't need pots or pans or a fire. Just your wand."
Harry found this ascetic idea, that a wizard needed nothing more than his wand, extraordinarily appealing. Self-sufficiency was real power.
In the face of Harry's obstinacy, Lupin relented and let him cook his own steak, after they had worked together to mash the potatoes and steam the broccoli in a muggle fashion. For his own steak, Lupin did little more than season the raw meat with some salt and pepper before plating it on cracked china. Harry frowned at the sorry state of the dishes.
"There's no way to fix these?" he asked, tapping at a chipped edge.
"The mending charm only works if you have all the pieces at hand," Lupin told him, taking both their plates over to the tea table in the parlour, for lack of a better seating area. Harry got the impression that Lupin usually just ate at the kitchen counter.
"I know," said Harry, hurrying after him, silverware in hand. "But what about transfiguration?"
Lupin sighed. "It won't stick. These plates know they're old. Besides, you can always tell when something's transfigured. It's uncanny."
Harry supposed Lupin was right. Transfigured things were often too perfect, or else they were imperfect in an unsettling way that didn't match naturally produced objects. Even Petri, an uncontested miser who used magic for everything, almost never relied on transfigured items.
"How's your steak?" Lupin asked, as Harry started into his food.
"A bit overcooked," he admitted. "I need more practice."
Lupin, to his credit, didn't rib him over it and simply nodded. After a few silent moments, he asked, "Any plans for your extended holiday?"
Harry shrugged. "We still have homework, so it's not much of a holiday. I do want to visit the Athenaeum, though, as soon as I can."
"A true Ravenclaw, I see," Lupin remarked. "It would be safer to stay in, though, with the dementors around. They've got aurors stationed in Diagon North and Carkitt, but there aren't enough to cover the lower alleys."
"Are there really so few aurors?" Harry asked, surprised.
Lupin shook his head. "Not enough who can cast the patronus charm."
"I know it's hard, but it's not that hard, is it? Even I can cast it," Harry protested. This was perhaps an exaggeration of his abilities, but what Dumbledore had told him about his patronus being corporeal made Harry feel a little more confident.
Lupin's eyebrows shot up to his hairline. "That's extremely impressive," he said. "Can you do it even while dementors are present?"
"Well, only half the time. It's a lot harder then," Harry admitted.
"Yes. The spell is so difficult because it requires you to be in a mental state that's completely unsuited to the situation. Few people have enough self-mastery to feel genuine hope and happiness in the face of despair," said Lupin.
"You can do it, though," Harry said. "Did you learn it at Hogwarts?"
Lupin shook his head. "We all—that is, all of us in Dumbledore's order—learned it for secure communication back during Voldemort's rise. You probably saw it earlier when I sent Dumbledore mine. It's extremely fast and can't be intercepted, and you can't fake somebody's patronus, either, so it can be used to confirm someone's identity. Useful when anyone could be an imposter."
"What if someone coincidentally has the same patronus?" Harry asked.
"It's possible," Lupin agreed, "But very unlikely, especially since almost none of Voldemort's followers know the spell."
Harry supposed that if Dumbledore was the one who had invented the variation of the charm that could be used as a messenger, then other people had no reason to learn it if they weren't expecting to come up against dementors.
"Do you think more people will learn it, now that there are dementors everywhere?" he asked.
Lupin shook his head. "The dementors were on Voldemort's side last time, too, and they basically had free rein. The average witch or wizard has never cast a spell as complicated as the patronus charm in their whole life. It's far beyond what is taught at Hogwarts."
Harry was full of scepticism at hearing this claim. His unique issues aside, the spell really wasn't that much harder than other spells he had learned.
Seeing his expression, Lupin added, "You're an exceptional wizard, Harry. It's obvious just from how flagrantly you violate the underage magic restriction. Magic comes easily to you. This is absolutely not the case for the vast majority of witches and wizards."
"Really?" Harry asked, suddenly remembering how Vince had once told him the same thing. Harry had been doubtful then as well. "What's it like for them, then? I don't understand."
Lupin sighed, then smiled faintly. "Are there any spells that you struggle with?"
"The summoning charm and the water-making charm," Harry said, after a moment.
"Those are quite magic intensive," Lupin said. "I imagine they'll come more easily as you get older. But just imagine for a moment that every charm is as difficult to cast as the summoning charm. Would you still use magic, given other alternatives?"
Harry frowned. "I see what you're saying. But can't most people use more than enough magic to cast spells like that?"
Lupin nodded. "It's not a perfect analogy. The limitation for most people is not power, but mental discipline. Even the most basic spells require you to concentrate on two things at once, wand movement and incantation, and most spells need clear visualisation, intent, and focus on top of that."
"I see," Harry mumbled, furrowing his brow. It was true that casting spells was a peculiar mental exercise, but with practice he felt that he had by now adapted to that frame of mind, and that new spells weren't altogether different from old ones. In fact, he was often able to cast new charms on his first try these days, whereas he'd once had to spend weeks practising. And charms he had mastered could almost be cast without conscious thought. On the other hand, he had seen for himself how hard it was for Vince to do two things at once, and couldn't discount Lupin's explanation.
They finished dinner and washed up together, again doing things the muggle way. Lupin claimed that manual work was relaxing, and that he always did the dishes by hand even if the corresponding spell was easy enough. Harry couldn't wrap his mind around it at all. Lupin was obviously talented himself, given that he could cast the patronus charm and had been trusted to protect Harry in the past.
Petri came around seven to rescue him from Lupin's overly conscientious supervision, looking quite like he had just rolled out of bed. His dark grey curls puffed up at the back of his head, and his eyes were bleary. With only a curt, disdainful word of thanks to Lupin, he took Harry by the hand, leading him swiftly down the creaky stairs and up the gloomy, strangely deserted street.
"Expecto patronum," Petri said as soon as they passed under the dingy sign that demarcated Knockturn from Purefair. A silver blur shot out of his wand, fluttering into the sky and beginning to circle overhead. Harry squinted. It was a horned owl, which struck a chord of unease in his chest, because he could have sworn that Petri's patronus had not had ear tufts the last time he'd seen it. He couldn't help remembering his conversation with Lupin about patronuses and imposters.
Harry shook his head. He was being way too paranoid.
"Are there a lot of dementors in the graveyard?" he asked.
"No. They've largely kept to Diagon Alley. But I'd rather be prepared, just in case," Petri said. "By the way, did you resolve your difficulties with the patronus charm?"
Harry tried to explain what he had learned earlier that day: "I can cast it, but it just sticks to me and I can't control it. Dumbledore says it's technically corporeal, but there's a problem with my soul because of the Dark Lord."
"There could be a problem with your soul for any number of reasons," Petri agreed. "No matter. I expect you've figured out some other way to protect yourself from dementors."
He turned to give Harry a meaningful look, his face pale and sharp under the silvery light of his patronus.
"I did," Harry said. "I finished the stones."
"Good. Let's talk when we get home," Petri said.
They made it to the graveyard without encountering a single dementor, and the patronus circled around them one last time before extinguishing itself as Petri tapped his wand on the casket door.
"So," Petri said as soon they reached the bottom of the stairs. Harry felt his stomach tighten at his tone. "Was it you or the Dark Lord who was responsible for the dementors kissing students?"
Harry turned around slowly, trying to gauge Petri's expression, but there was nothing more than bland curiosity in his eyes.
"Both, I suppose," Harry said.
Petri gave him a considering look and then held out his hand. "Well? I hope it was a fair trade. Let me see your stones."
A little surprised that that was the end of the discussion about the attack, Harry hurriedly set his trunk down and threw it open. Over the jingling of the latches, he heard Petri mutter, "You really need more security. Dark artefacts lying in plain sight, not even a lock."
Petri wasn't wrong. As Harry shoved The Tales of Beedle the Bard and a rumpled robe aside to get to his cauldron, his fingers immediately brushed over the grainy leather of Bridging the Veil, which was sticking over the rim. Picking it up gingerly, he held it out.
"Here. You can have this back. I really don't think it's safe. My friend wrote in it, and she got kissed by a dementor," Harry said, and a choking feeling that he couldn't place overtook him momentarily. Swallowing, he continued, "Could I have done something to prevent it, or make it happen a different way?"
"Possibly," said Petri as he took the book. With a twist of his wrist, it disappeared up his sleeve. "Why did you let another student use this? I expected more discretion from you."
"She was the one who had it originally, and wrote in it ages ago," Harry said quickly, declining to mention the part where he had in fact given it back to Ginny. "Her brother was the one who killed himself earlier."
Petri's expression cleared, and Harry was thankful he didn't know legilimency. "And you advised her about it? What did you try to do?"
"I didn't. That's the thing," Harry said. "I could've warned her about the attack. I warned my other friends, but I forgot to warn her."
"You forgot," Petri repeated. "Then you obviously could not have done otherwise. We do not choose what we remember or forget. There's no reason to regret making a mistake. You can only work not to repeat it in the future."
Harry stared up at him wide-eyed. Was Petri trying to console him?
"I don't regret it, though," Harry said, holding up the large vial of briny water that held all eight of his precious resurrection stones, each perfectly round and glimmering with reflected firelight. "I should, but I don't feel bad for what I did. I think there might be something wrong with me."
"Nonsense," Petri said, taking the vial from him and carefully pouring one of the stones into his hand. He held it up to the light. "Why should you feel bad? As I just said—it was a mistake."
"Shouldn't I be sad that my friend is dead?" Harry asked.
"Your emotions are what they are. Consider that if you aren't sad, then perhaps she was never your friend. In any case, I should think that the rewards are well worth the price. Eight resurrection stones for two lives, and your own was not one of them," Petri said. "You've come farther than any apprentice before you."
"Even Aleksandra?" Harry asked, surprised. Even though it had been a very long time since Petri had last conjured Aleksandra, probably because Ulrich was more convenient, Harry still remembered how Petri had trusted her to carry out the most complicated tasks.
"Aleksandra took a somewhat different path. She had no interest in resurrecting the dead, and focused her studies on necromancy," Petri said. Harry wondered suddenly how she had died. Before he could ask, however, Petri brought the subject back to the resurrection stones. "Have you thought about whom you would like to conjure for your first attempt?"
"I don't know," Harry admitted. "You said it should be someone I knew well, but I don't think there's anybody like that."
Petri nodded. "A close friend or relative would be ideal, but since that isn't possible for you, then ancestors are the next best option."
"My parents?" Harry blurted, hope fluttering in his chest.
"Better a grandparent," said Petri. "Your parents may be the most dangerous people you could possibly conjure."
"Why?" Harry demanded.
"You care for them, yet you do not know them," Petri said. "Just think for a moment. Will you be able to defend yourself against them when they try to hurry you to your doom? What will you do when your mother pleads for you to avenge her death by fighting the Dark Lord? When she tells you that you are tainted, that you must destroy your horcrux to redeem yourself?"
Harry flinched as he remembered that this was very much like what Ulrich had tried to make him agree to. If that had been his mum… unbidden, a flash of his dream on the train came to him, the image of his mother inside the flower like a sprung trap.
"I get it," he said quickly, disappointment burbling in his gut. He forced it down, spying an opportunity. "Where's my horcrux, anyway? Did you really throw it in the ocean?"
"It's better if you don't know, to avoid any accidents," Petri said, which only made Harry certain that it was not at the bottom of the ocean after all. He knew well enough that Petri was straightforward and preferred not to lie outright.
"Fine," Harry said, recognising that he wasn't going to get anything else. He returned to the topic at hand. "So… my grandparents. I don't even know their names."
Were they even dead? Lupin had mentioned his mum's parents earlier, but what of his dad's? He supposed they had to be gone, if he had never heard about them.
Petri sighed. "You'd best look at your father's death certificate. It should list all immediate family members."
"Where would I get that?" Harry asked.
"I'll owl the Ministry for a copy," Petri said. "Put your things away for now. I'll store your stones more securely. You absolutely cannot leave them just lying around. They are class five dark artefacts. If somebody touches one unprepared, they might die, and then you'll be in trouble."
"What?" Harry demanded.
"It's very unlikely, but there is a chance that someone caught off guard could experience effects similar to the dementor's kiss," Petri explained.
With that revelation, he crossed the room to where his own trunk lay on its side and disappeared into its depths with the stones. Harry turned to gather up the rest of his things. The bedroom looked the same as Harry remembered, separated from the toilet by a pair of wooden screens. He pulled his trunk over to the far side of the room and slid it underneath the bed, too lazy to bother unpacking everything.
When he returned to the main room, Petri had also resurfaced. He beckoned for Harry to take a seat at the table, on which was already laid a piece of parchment and a quill. As soon as Harry sat down, Petri began to lecture:
"A resurrection stone gives you a direct link to the form you are attempting to conjure, saving you nearly all the work. Without it, you have to create and follow the entire conjuration formula yourself. This isn't so difficult when you know the subject well, only time-consuming, but in your case you will be trying to conjure somebody you've never met, which means you absolutely cannot cut corners on the formula. Have you worked with conjuration formulas at school?"
"Not yet," Harry said with reluctance. "I think that's NEWT material."
Petri frowned. "The main principles are the same as ordinary transfiguration formulas, only the origin is empty."
Harry's eye twitched. An empty origin basically invalidated everything he knew about similarity. How could something be similar to nothing? It could even be said that 'nothing' was as far away from 'something' as it was possible to get.
Seeing his expression, Petri said, "Forget about similarity and just concentrate on the form. The spellcasting process for conjuration is more like a charm than a transfiguration, anyway. The key difference is that the spell does not leave your control once it's cast."
Harry nodded, remembering that Professor Flitwick had explained this distinction to him once.
Petri continued, "Because of this, you can split the spell into multiple steps and conjure one property at a time. You've likely done something similar with ordinary transfiguration before."
"Wait," Harry interrupted, "but Professor McGonagall always docks points when we do that. She says it's bad technique."
Petri snorted. "I assure you that nobody, not your transfiguration professor, not even Dumbledore, would be capable of an unassisted one-step human conjuration. This isn't like conjuring an animal or an object. A person is a singular form, probably the most exacting singular form there is. If you make a mistake, you'll slip from the singular form to the general form and the result will be useless."
"You mean it's possible to conjure a generic human instead of a specific person?" Harry asked.
"In theory, yes, but in practice, no," said Petri. "What usually happens is that you get the equivalent of a photograph."
"Oh, right. That kept happening when I was trying to conjure Ulrich at first," Harry recalled.
"I had you start with Ulrich precisely to help you understand the difference," Petri said, nodding. "When you conjure from scratch, since you are retrieving one component of the form at a time, you will be spending a very long time on this photograph-like stage, and you must be able to recognise when you have successfully isolated the singular form and can complete the spell. If you try to finish the spell too early, your prior efforts will have been wasted. It's better to err on the later side, but you don't want to waste too much time being conservative either."
"What do you mean, finishing the spell too early is bad? If it's wrong, can't you still fix it?" Harry asked.
Petri shook his head. "At that point, you will be transfiguring a conjuration, which is even more troublesome than simply conjuring anew."
"Wait, I'm confused," Harry mumbled. "Isn't doing it step by step also like transfiguring a conjuration?"
"No. It's different. For example, let's say I want to conjure a green china vase," Petri said, leaning over to pick up the quill. He shook it slightly so that it inked itself, and began to draw a peculiar transfiguration formula that started with a blank circle in the centre. In the transfiguration alphabet, he wrote 'vase' around the circle, and then on branching lines above and below he wrote the two main properties of the vase.
"Oh, I get it," Harry said, before Petri had even finished the diagram. "If you start off conjuring just a china vase, and it's not green, but ends up white or something, then you'd actually have to transfigure it like this."
He reached out, and Petri gave him the quill. Harry quickly crossed out the 'green' in Petri's formula, drew a vertical line next to the whole thing, and then wrote 'vase' to the right of the line, again with its two properties branching off from the centre.
Professor McGonagall had drilled this principle into their heads a million times: transfiguration always began from the origin. The formula for transfiguring a beetle into a blue button was exactly the same as the formula for transfiguring a brown button that had once been a beetle into a blue button. Trying to do the transfiguration as if it were brown button to blue button was doomed to fail. The same thing applied in this case, only the origin was nothing, because it was a conjuration.
"Isn't it still easier to transfigure the conjured vase than to start over, though?" Harry asked. "At least there's a reference."
"That reference is more likely to get in the way than to help. Let me demonstrate," Petri said, taking out his wand. "Vaseus, vaseus, vaseus."
A shimmering, extremely generic vase shape appeared in the air, solidified into smooth porcelain, and then revealed itself to have been green all along. Harry blinked rapidly as his eyes swam from the incomparably uncanny sight of that inchoate vase.
Petri made a face. "It's rather uncomfortable to break a conjuration down like that, and unnecessary for something this simple, but you get the idea. Before I finish the conjuration, its properties are simply unspecified. Afterwards, if I want to transfigure it further, I have to consciously deny what is right in front of me to conjure something else with a slightly different property. Don't forget that almost all the properties you'll be conjuring will be immaterial ones. If you fail, it will be difficult to even determine what exactly is wrong."
"So I have to conjure things like personality?" Harry asked.
"Yes, among others. There's a hierarchy you can go down until you manage to isolate the singular form. Depending on how easy the person is to identify, you may have to go into extreme detail. It's easier with an ancestor of yours, as you can use your blood to guide the spell, but blood only goes so far. You have thousands of relevant ancestors. You'll have to figure out what makes the specific person you're conjuring different from everyone else," Petri said.
"Wouldn't their name already identify them?" Harry asked.
Petri shook his head. "Names are not intrinsic properties."
"We use names of things in transfiguration all the time," Harry protested, indicating the still wet ink of the example transfiguration formulas they had just written.
"You use names as a conceptual aid only," Petri said. "If I asked you to transfigure something into an object whose name I gave you, but which you didn't recognise, I assure you no amount of effort would make it work."
Harry considered this and reluctantly had to admit that it was true. He relied so much on imagining his target for transfiguration that if he didn't know what it looked like, he wouldn't even know where to start. Fortunately, Professor McGonagall always did a demonstration of the day's assignment at the start of every practical.
"Once you find out who your grandparents are, you will have to do research into their lives," Petri told him. "I recommend you choose the one on whom you can find the most information. There are undoubtedly still people alive who remember them, so you can start by trying to gather stories or memories. Then you can incorporate your findings into your conjuration formula. For now, you can start writing the basic formula—you're conjuring the reflection of someone related to you by blood."
Harry lifted the quill and hesitantly drew a circle halfway down the page, imitating the formula Petri had written earlier. He knew he had his work cut out for him, but all he felt was mounting excitement. He knew so little about his family. Even if conjuration turned out to be extremely difficult, it at least gave him a good reason to find out more.