Harry woke with a start.

Early morning's blue shades wrapped the room in soft calm. He lay in a wide bed, and, on his left, Ginny was sleeping soundly. Her long, red hair flowed on the pillow as though caught in a storm.

Harry inhaled deeply and chortled to himself, wiping the sweat from his brow. How real a dream seems while you're there, he thought. And how ridiculous the moment you wake up.

Mrrroooh, came a growl.

Harry's eyes popped in rapt attention before he realised his stomach was sounding complaints. It did hurt a little; he recalled all the Selene's Sky Pies he had eaten the night before.

'Better watch out, Harry,' were Ron Weasley's words. 'Those Pies are mental. They taste all right, no doubt, but the dreams they give you when you eat too many …!'

Harry chuckled again. 'You weren't wrong, mate.'

Yawning and stretching, he climbed out of bed and stole to the curtained window. He parted the curtain an inch and looked out upon the misty grounds with its gnarled trees, pink traces outlining the horizon.

A pair of magpies were bickering in the garden. Honeysuckles and Flutterby Bushes swayed as the birds hopped about, chattering incessantly. None of them noticed a gnome's leathery, bald head popping up behind them. Even from where Harry stood, the malicious grin on the gnome's face was unmistakable – as was the way it hunched its neck like a tiger ready to pounce.

With a squeaky roar, it jumped up next to the magpies, flailing its little arms and laughing like a maniac amongst a flutter of flapping wings.

The gnome disappeared again into the thick turf, giggling contentedly, its potato-like head wobbling amid the blades of grass. The magpies flew off, crossing the lawn. They passed the garden's borders and slid above the meadow beyond, swooping low over a hedge. A testy cluster of Honking Daffodils sounded their trumpets after the birds – until a nearby buckthorn shrub smacked them into silence.

Harry smiled, remembering the irritable temperament of the Whomping Willow at Hogwarts.

He returned to his bed and lay down next to Ginny. Slow, soft breaths escaped her at a hypnotic pace; Harry closed his eyes.

A couple of minutes passed, his body growing heavier, and he rolled over on his side. Something small, hard and cold lay against his face. Harry sat up again, looking down at the pillow. Pressed into the soft down was a key.

Arching an eyebrow, Harry held the key up in the morning light. It was not much larger than his thumb, and golden. He looked over at Ginny, creasing his brow. 'Nope,' he mumbled, shaking his head. 'No way.' He clasped the key in his hand.

Ginny started moving on her side of the bed. She opened her eyes, squinting up at Harry.

'You're up early,' she muttered, caressing his arm.

Harry leaned in close to her. 'Yeah. Umm – I'll be going to Hogwarts in a few minutes. Some business to attend to.'

'Some business?' said Ginny, smiling.

'Er – yes. You know how it is.' He gave a little cough and looked away.

'Do I ever,' she said in an amused tone, kissed him on the forehead and went back to sleep.

Harry Apparated just outside the Hogwarts Castle grounds. The ancient towers ripped like black spears through the sky.

Inside, a scattering of students was drifting in the Entrance Hall, frowning at their schedules. On his way through the school, a few wayward pupils shot Harry admiring looks and giggled into their hands, but he was otherwise left alone.

He went up to the seventh floor – he did not realise he was short for breath until he stood in front of the stone gargoyle guarding the Headmistress's office.

'Password?' it muttered.

'Cranachan.'

The gargoyle sprang aside and Harry ascended the spiral staircase.

Inside the circular office, the first copper sunrays seeped through the room. Behind the desk sat Professor McGonagall leafing through a stack of papers. When Harry opened the door, she looked up with big eyes behind her square-rimmed spectacles. Her mouth pressed to a thin line, which a second later turned into a warm smile.

'Why, good morning, Harry!' she said.

'Good morning, Professor!' he replied and sat down, facing her. 'I hope I'm not bothering you.'

She pushed the paperwork to the side. 'Don't be silly. It's always nice to see you. Family doing well?'

'Yes, thank you, very well … James is a bit of a challenge these days, as you've seen yourself – I'm so sorry about the bewitched chamber pots.'

Her lips curled. 'Nothing I can't handle, Harry.'

'I would not have expected anything less,' he smiled back. 'How's the headmistress business nowadays?'

'There is a lot of it, that I can say for certain. I am getting older …'

'Why, I'm sure you –'

'– but I'm at least as capable as ever.'

'Absolutely,' Harry smiled and reddened.

'So, naturally,' she went on, 'what is bothering me is that Gryffindor has not won the Quidditch Cup in three unbearably long years. I only wish to see us win one more time before I – hm – retire.'

'Were I allowed, I'd drop everything and take on the role of Gryffindor Seeker.'

'Goodness me!' she exclaimed, causing the mousy bun on her head to wobble. 'Wouldn't that be marvellous? The Slytherins wouldn't stand a chance! Well, a poor witch can dream. But enough about my worries' – she adjusted the spectacles on her nose – 'how may I be of service, Harry?'

'Hm …' he started. 'How do I begin? … Something happened to me very recently. It may be of no concern at all. But, on the other hand, it may be extremely important.'

'What is it?' said Professor McGonagall, in a voice both concerned and curious.

Harry sighed. 'It will sound preposterous, but it can't be helped: Have you ever had a very, very unusual dream and then found a key on your pillow?'

Professor McGonagall blinked. 'I beg your pardon?'

'It happened this morning: I woke up from the most surreal dream, and I found this tiny, golden key on my bed.' He pulled out the key from his pocket and put it on the desk. 'It wasn't there when I went to bed and I don't see how anyone could have put it there. Ginny wouldn't.'

'Peculiar,' said Professor McGonagall, her brow contracting as she inspected the key. 'I'm afraid I've never heard of anything like it. It could be Dark Magic, certainly – or something entirely different. What was the dream about?'

'I don't remember, really,' he lied. 'I just recall it was, by far, weirder than anything I've ever dreamt.'

'It does indeed seem as though the dream and the key have something to do with each other. Regrettably,' she sighed, 'other than providing ill-informed speculation, I don't know how to help you, Harry.'

He nodded as if to say 'I assumed you wouldn't'.

'Perhaps Hermione knows something?' she urged. 'At this point, she has probably read more volumes on magic than anyone in Hogwarts history.'

'Hermione is very knowledgeable, she truly is … But I have a strong feeling this is about something you can't find in any book.'

'I see. And I take it for granted,' she said, raising an eyebrow, 'that you have no interest in seeing Professor Trelawney about this … dream matter.'

He snickered. 'No. No, I don't think she would give me any useful answers.'

Professor McGonagall eyed him for a moment.

'I am no fool, Harry,' she said. 'You didn't come all the way up here to speak to me. What exactly is it you want?'

'I'm sorry, Professor – I wouldn't do this if I didn't feel I had to.' He bit his lip. 'I … I need to talk to Dumbledore.'

Professor McGonagall inhaled and stiffened as someone Petrified, her thin nostrils flaring.

'Please, Professor! I realise it's an unusual request, but I'm positive he is the only person who would know what the key is.'

'This is highly irregular, Potter,' she said, her voice stern. 'You know that is not Dumbledore in the painting' – she gestured at the portrait behind her where Albus Dumbledore was sleeping in an armchair – 'it's nothing but a memoir that has been magically conditioned to behave like him and impart practical knowledge to the current Head of Hogwarts.'

'I do know. But what if he has left instructions for me, some advice that I'm only to hear once I'm ready? It wouldn't be the first time.'

'Harry Potter!' Professor McGonagall lashed out and stood up. 'You were once horribly slain – and then miraculously returned to us. What mystery could there possibly be left for you to unearth?'

His face turned solemn. 'Apparently,' he said, and picked up the key from the desk, 'there is one.'

Professor McGonagall sat down. Considering Harry, her forehead lined with wrinkles, she pressed her hands together over the desk. She fixed her eyes on a spot in the room and her jaw clenched. And she sighed:

'I need to be somewhere else at the moment, anyway.'

She stood up – Harry did likewise – picked up some papers from the desk and walked to the spiral staircase.

'And have a biscuit if you're staying,' she called back from the doorway. 'They're in the tin on the desk.'

Harry beamed at her. 'Thank you so much, Professor.'

A hint of a smile twitched on Professor McGonagall's lips before she descended the stairs.

Harry remained where he stood, his eyes still on the doorway, as someone contemplating the correct approach to awaken a sleeping magical portrait.

'Hello, Harry,' said a calm voice.

Harry spun around.

Dumbledore was sitting relaxed in his cosy armchair and smiled down at Harry with his kind, blue eyes.

'Professor!' Harry almost laughed and strode to the picture. 'It's been a while.'

'I'm sure it has. To be perfectly honest, it is hard for me to tell, being framed to the wall and whatnot.'

Harry's smile faded. 'Yes. Of course.'

'But I can assure you,' said Dumbledore, lowering his head, 'I have not forgotten anything important should anyone need my guidance.'

Harry grinned. Even years after its owner's death and even though merely painted replicas, Dumbledore's eyes were still able to pierce Harry's soul and read his mind like a newspaper.

It also made things so much easier. Harry held up the key to the portrait. It glittered golden in the sun.

'Oh,' said Dumbledore.

'You recognise it, Professor?' said Harry, fidgeting like a soda can about to explode.

'I do.'

'You see, I – I had a dream –'

'Yes,' Dumbledore interrupted, 'and then the key was in your bed when you awoke.'

'Er – yes. Yes, exactly! It seems – I think maybe I had one too many of Selene's Sky Pies.'

Dumbledore smiled. 'You would hardly find that sort of key merely by eating Sky Pies, Harry. Though, I admit,' he added in a hushed voice, 'I once sampled an inordinate amount of them in one sitting. Devious little pastries.'

Harry laughed and Dumbledore looked down at his lap with a smirk on his face.

'So, what is this key?' Harry implored. 'Is it bad?'

'Good or bad, well – I believe it depends on one's reaction to what it opens,' said Dumbledore. Then his forehead somewhat wrinkled with concern. 'I suspect, however, that your dream was not entirely pleasant?'

'It was … terrifying,' Harry muttered, eyeing the floor, shaking his head. 'I've never experienced anything like that in my life. It felt so dreadfully – real.'

Dumbledore sat silent.

'Was it real?' Harry hesitated.

'No, Harry. It was a dream. You woke up, did you not?'

'But the key, Professor! The dream made the key appear. Is it some kind of curse? Is – is that it? Have I been cursed with something?'

The old wizard chuckled. 'Certainly not more than the rest of us, I would think. This is not Dark Magic, Harry. No Dark Wizard has cursed you.'

'Then what is it?'

Dumbledore inhaled as though a long story would follow.

'It is old magic,' he began. 'Older, it seems, than anyone can remember. Several great wizards and witches have prodded its secret and attempted to explain it. But whenever anyone did understand it fully, they took their insights to the grave. I dare say you would not find a trace of it even at the Department of Mysteries.

'Long ago, I nevertheless befriended a scholar who studied the subject. Luigi Umbrasius Vorple was his name. According to his colleagues, Vorple's work was a complete waste of brainpower. And budget. But he did finally make a tremendous breakthrough in his research. When I met him afterwards, however, he could no longer speak. All his notes were burnt up and he would not write another word. He died within a few months.

'Now, I have never told anyone about this, Harry, but something rather astonishing happened years later. It transpired one night that I was deep in the Forbidden Forest. On my journey, I probably became utterly lost in thought, because it was as though the path I trod had suddenly been covered up. No matter in which direction I turned, it all seemed an impenetrable maze.

'But not too far from where I stood, something was glowing between the trees and branches. I made my way through the undergrowth, towards the source of the light, and came upon a small cauldron standing on the forest floor. It was filled with a shimmering, golden liquid.

'On its surface I was surprised to see not my own reflection, but the face of Professor Vorple. And he spoke to me, although in a strange language that I did not know or even recognise. I was utterly perplexed – until I realised dear Luigi was speaking backwards.

'While the face in the cauldron chattered on, I attempted a few spells in order to set the speech right. Nothing worked. So, while munching on a marmalade sweet, I contemplated what else could be done.

'It so happened that the bag of Every-Flavour Beans I carried had a little hole at the bottom, and from it slipped a sweet – goodness knows which flavour! – into the cauldron. Luigi's voice was immediately interrupted and instead he coughed like one choking. I heard a gulp. And then the cauldron seemed to retch up all its golden fluid into the air. A small portion of the liquid then splashed back down onto the iron bottom and curdled into the shape of a sausage roll.'

Harry gave a taken-aback mumble. 'Must have been a bogey-flavoured one. Those beans are nasty.'

'I was never very fond of them,' Dumbledore said with a skewed smile. 'Nevertheless, Bertie Bott's sweets managed to reveal the cauldron's true contents: the congealed remnant was, as it turned out, a scroll of parchment.'

'Parchment? Was anything written on it?'

'Oh, yes,' said Dumbledore. 'A poem, in fact. I believe they are the very last words left by Professor Vorple. They should aid you in comprehending this magic, but' – he held up a finger – 'only if you ponder the rhymes very carefully. Allow me to read it to you.'

From inside one of his robe sleeves, Dumbledore extracted a coiled sheet glinting like gold on the painting. Unrolling the parchment, he cleared his throat and started reading as someone going through a shopping list:

'Lamp of heaven yesterday,

In a flash the wicked one;

New enchantments underway

Kiss an earth that cannot run.

As the storm clouds black as ink

Let their rainfall wet the map,

Longing seeds are tickled pink

For their petals to unwrap.

In the soil are foot and leg

Rooted while the planets spin.

Sunrise fries them like an egg,

Twilight peels their crusty skin.

Something itches in the head

Ogden's Old could not erase:

Famous last words penned in red

Left as furrows on the face.

And to nought is it amounting

Seeking signs and answers nor

Tallying your hurts and counting

Suns and moons from days of yore.'

Dumbledore folded the parchment, put it back in his robes and looked up at Harry.

'That's – that's it?' Harry said.

'That's it,' said Dumbledore, smiling.

Harry rose from his chair.

'You must be joking. How is this helping? How is it better than Trelawney's palm readings? So – what? – life is painful and exhausting? We can only make the best of it?'

He stood with his hands on his hips, chortling as he continued:

'Because what would I know about pain? I was only raised by abusive relatives; only hunted by the most powerful, evil wizard who ever lived; I've only seen some of my friends murdered. So, what would I know? I've only been dead, for heaven's sake!'

Dumbledore's face gave hardly a hint of emotion.

'Hell,' Harry went on, 'if Vorple really wanted to help me, I'd love a verse or two about, say, a teenager's mind – there's a mystery, all right! Instead I get flashing lamps and whatnot. It would –'

Harry choked off and stood pegged like a dried-up fountain sculpture.

'Lamps,' he breathed. 'Flashing … In my dream, I – is this about my mother? Is there something important about her that I never knew?'

'You are getting closer, Harry. But you are still quite far from its essence.'

Harry scoffed and raised his arms in disbelief. 'Then what am I to – I simply don't see –'

'Think outside the box,' said Dumbledore, demonstrating by outlining the painting's frame with his finger.

'Oh!' Harry burst out.

He stepped closer to the portrait. 'Outside the box …' he muttered as he investigated the frame. With determination on his face, he seized the painting's low corners –

'Harry, what –'

– and in one swift move, pulled the painting up like a car boot.

'Whoosh!' Dumbledore exclaimed with some amusement. 'Harry, I do not think –'

'There's nothing here,' said Harry, examining every inch of the wall as he held the painting above him.

Dumbledore gave a hearty laugh. 'Of course there is nothing there. I believe you misinterpreted what I was – Merlin's muffin tops!'

'What?' Harry shouted from below. 'What?'

'The ceiling is full of cobwebs. How on earth could we have missed it? Why, it looks positively dreadful. It is fascinating, however, to consider how one goes a whole career never looking up as I do now – you could almost say –'

Wham! Harry had let go of the canvas and it hit the wall hard enough for neighbouring portraits to shudder in their frames. Dumbledore had been thrown to the floor in the picture and now crawled back into the armchair.

'I thought you were in danger!' Harry fumed, hoping his anger would make his embarrassment from taking the hint so literally seem less obvious.

'My dear boy,' Dumbledore said as he sat down again and straightened the half-moon spectacles on his crooked nose, 'I am a painting – I will never be in danger … not unless artists with more abstract leanings decide to improve me, that is.'

'Fine, fine,' Harry snapped, 'but what does the poem mean, then?'

'I am afraid the rule is that I cannot tell you directly.'

'Rule? Whose rule?'

Dumbledore looked at Harry. The paint composing the wizard's face was meticulously applied with thin brush strokes, but it formed a coarse enough surface to make him look older than Harry remembered him. Dumbledore smoothed his moustache and said:

'Come, Harry. Please, step close to the painting.'

Harry did as he was told, and when Dumbledore made a gesture by putting a finger behind his ear, Harry leaned still closer and almost touched the dried paint with his cheek. The portrait spoke in hurried whispers:

'Now, listen Harry, these may be the most important words I will ever tell you. Th-things are not what they seem – nor is the poem. Use the Pensieve in the black cabinet. Drop the key in it. I know you do not fear death, but there is another death. A-and other keys. You must not fail in making the right decisions, Harry. You must not fail! The dream you had may not be real, but –'

A loud splash filled the room. Harry jerked his head from the painting and looked up.

Above him, a stain of oozing liquid had drenched the portrait, bubbling and fizzing as the paint dissolved. The distorting figure of Dumbledore gurgled and gasped as it flailed with what little anatomy was left to it.

'No! Professor! No …'

Harry could only observe in horror as the colours melted together, ran down the picture, bled over the frame and dripped onto the floor, leaving a grey nothing on the canvas.

Breathing uneasily, Harry steadied himself on the desk. He swung his head left and right: he was alone. Nothing in the office was out of place.

He caught a glimpse of the black cabinet, standing inconspicuously against the wall. His eyes darkened – with a grunt, he dashed to the cabinet and swung its doors open.

The shallow stone basin, with its curious runes around its edge, was brimming with the familiar substance of old memories: a bright, cloudy swirl of shining silver.

Harry lifted the Pensieve and carried it to the desk, where it made a thud on the polished wood. From his pocket, Harry pulled out the golden key. He contemplated it for a second, then dropped it into the basin.

The silvery substance began twirling. Faster and faster it went, passing for a local cyclone, the pearly colour draining. A few moments later, it had hardened into a solid, transparent surface.

From the basin's reflections, Harry could almost make out his green irises peering up at him. He leaned in closer.

With a crack, the shining material splintered, making Harry jump back. Underneath his robes, his hand had a firm grip on his wand. Exhaling, he loosened his grip and leaned forwards over the basin again. It had split into hundreds of fragments. The pattern resembled a chaotic dartboard, each segment with its own colour and depth moving underneath.

One piece, not much bigger than a thumbnail, caught his eye. It was almost black under the glass, with orange dots glimmering in straight lines. His index finger hovered over it.

Pursing his lips, he pressed his fingertip against the glass.

In one big sweep, the office fell inwards. Harry was thrown into the glittering basin, tumbling past icy darkness, dragged through a black, spinning vortex.

He touched down flat on his feet in a dungeon.

Behind rows of wooden desks, juvenile Gryffindor and Slytherin students sat occupied with potion ingredients, cauldrons steaming next to them. Ron Weasley, a couple of decades younger, sat pulling a bat spleen from a jar. By his side, an equally boyish Harry Potter was fiddling with some sort of firework. On patrol among the cauldrons was Severus Snape – hair, eyes and clothes pitch black.

'Pathetic, Longbottom,' he commented on Neville Longbottom's thin sludge.

A thunderous boom shook the dungeon. One of the cauldrons at the Slytherin desks had blown up and Swelling Solution was now raining down on the class. A thick glob hit Draco Malfoy in the face and in an instant his nose expanded to the size of a melon. He let out a gurgling shriek, his nostrils squirting blood on the dungeon floor.

Behind Malfoy, Gregory Goyle's fists swelled to twice the size of his head, the bones in his hands snapping like sticks. Goyle roared in agony. Ear-splitting cries came from all sides as body parts ballooned, blood spattered and bones cracked. Pupils slipped or fainted. Snape flapped helplessly about from student to student, boil to boil. Cowering under a desk, the young Harry trembled and cried with shock at what he had done.

The room faded. Coming into view was a dark courtroom, lit with torches. In a chair in the centre, strapped with magical chains, Albus Dumbledore sat facing the judge's balcony. Among the figures on the bench was the Minister for Magic, Cornelius Fudge, who was in the middle of a speech.

'Of course this would happen, Dumbledore!' he thundered. 'Potions of the sort under scrutiny do not somehow add tissue – it only enlarges what is already there: in a matter of seconds, it strains the flesh, sinews and nerves to impossible sizes. You must have known this!'

Dumbledore lowered his head, looking down upon his hands. Fudge continued, glaring at the accused:

'The pain and horror experienced by these students are beyond anything we can possibly comprehend, and has either resulted in incurable, chronic conditions or – in three cases – death.

'Considering these extreme consequences, it matters little whether your inclusion of this potion in class was due to inconceivable cruelty or outrageous incompetence. A life sentence in Azkaban is mild punishment for the suffering you have caused.'

A blackness swirled over the scene and Harry was sucked back up, landing with his feet on the floor of the sunny Headmistress's office.

'Whoa,' he panted. 'What on earth was that?'

He put his palms on either side of the basin.

'Guess I'll just have to try another one,' he said and pressed one of the fragments. He keeled over into darkness once more.

Magnolia Crescent at night. Harry's adolescent self sat on a low wall. Next to him was his trunk, with Hedwig resting in her cage. The boy bent over his luggage – then stood up, wand in hand, leaning in the direction of a dark alley.

'Lumos,' he said. A globe of light enveloped the end of his wand. He held it high, towards the alley. There, a pair of glistening eyes was glaring at him. He stepped backwards with fright, tripping on his trunk, and fell. The wall's sharp edge met his neck – crack – and his limp body collapsed in the gutter.

A loud bang resounded on the street. Out of nowhere, a purple triple-decker bus came driving at high speed. Its heavy wheels rolled over the gutter with a thump-thump before it screeched to a halt.

From the bus hopped a pimply teenager in a purple uniform. He smartened himself up and proclaimed in a high voice:

'Welcome to the Knight Bus, emergency transport for the stranded witch or wizard. I am your conductor, Stan Shunpike. Just stick out your wand hand and –'

Stan came to an abrupt stop. He had caught sight of Harry, whose body lay mangled and deformed.

'O-o-oh m-my G-G–' was all Stan Shunpike could manage before he retched on the pavement.

The scene changed.

Dumbledore sat in his office with a grave expression. Professor McGonagall quivered in a chair facing him.

'I cannot believe it,' she trembled, dabbing at her eyes with a lace handkerchief. 'Dead in a Muggle ditch, killed by that blasted Knight Bus. This was not meant to happen, Albus! I know I sound naive, but somehow I was confident he would live a long life, battling evil and … and save us all.'

'I …' Dumbledore began, the corners of his mouth hanging in deep creases. 'I must confess that I, too, had rather high hopes for him. Believe it or not, I had quite the plan prepared – even now, I can almost see the happy ending it would have had … I did not expect this.' He sighed. 'I was a fool.'

Professor McGonagall merely sobbed into her handkerchief.

'I suppose,' Dumbledore went on, 'that something good must come of all this. You will be glad to know, Minerva, that by tomorrow morning Sybill Trelawney will be looking for a job elsewhere.'

Professor McGonagall looked up, her eyes damp and red. Dumbledore's eyebrows lowered over his blazing, blue irises as he grumbled:

'I am much too old to set my hopes on the prophecy of a raving lunatic.'

Harry lurched back to the office of the present.

'Right,' he said. 'That was creepy. Maybe press a piece that looks a tad less gloomy.'

His eyes followed the concentric circles extending from the Pensieve's centre. One quite hefty segment along the basin's circumference was white and light blue.

'Ah,' Harry said. He pressed the shiny piece and was hurled into the basin yet again.

He stood in a sunny street. On either side, snug houses flanked the road, every inch of their wooden exterior painted white, their windows shining in the sunlight below a clear, blue sky. Behind Harry was a small square with trimmed grass and a stylish birdbath fountain fixed in the middle.

Standing outside houses numbers eleven and thirteen, was Snape. In these surroundings, he resembled a black ink blotch on white paper. Behind him stood a small group of Death Eaters, and on Snape's left side a teenaged Draco Malfoy glared at his shoes.

Out of thin air, a white house materialised between the two others. It had quaint little windows and was fronted by a charming mahogany door.

'This,' Snape murmured, 'is number twelve, St Err-Isle.'

Malfoy scoffed. 'Saint? Is it a hospice?'

Snape shot the boy a cryptic look and sneered. With a flick of his wand, the door opened.

In the airy foyer that met them, the party sneaked up a marble staircase covered with a lavender carpet. From tall windows, sunlight filled the hall, playing up the colourful portraits on the milky walls.

Along one wall was a row of plump heads mounted on plaques. Around their necks, they had ties hanging down in similar colours and patterns. Each head sported the same pale complexion, glasses and receding hairline.

The wizards accessed a corridor with light blue wallpapers. Malfoy held his pointed face high – and stumbled on an artfully woven rug, touching down on the floor with a loud clap.

'Draco!' bellowed a chubby Death Eater.

'It's not my fault! This damned rug was –'

'Silence, you two,' Snape hissed, 'before Aunty Septique starts –'

A deafening screech drowned out his sentence.

On the wall next to them, a pair of elegant velvet curtains had flown apart, uncovering a portrait of an old woman in a white cap. She was screaming ceaselessly, spluttering from her mouth and almost jumping out of her portrait in sheer rage.

Snape and one of the Death Eaters tugged the curtains shut, but they opened anew. The woman tried to claw at the intruders with her sharp fingernails as she screamed even louder.

'Scum! Filth! Inbreds! Home-grown freaks, vile natives, unenlightened duplicates – begone! How dare you befoul the sanctity of this upright –'

'Be quiet!' Snape barked.

The woman turned her gaunt face to Snape and her eyes nearly popped from their hollows.

'You!' she cried. 'Indecent defector, pedantic provoker, shame of my discourse!'

More insults blared from the portrait while Snape and the Death Eaters tried covering it with the extraordinarily chic velvet curtains, but the scene dissolved and – after zooming upwards through darkness yet again – Harry stood in the present-day Headmistress's office.

'Hmph,' he snorted.

Watching the Pensieve, he hesitated. With a little sigh, he pressed another piece at random and plummeted downwards.

This time, Harry found himself following a younger Hermione up a dimly lit spiral staircase. Under her arm, she carried an ancient book that likely was coloured sapphire blue once upon a time. After walking in several tight circles up the tower, she stopped at a door with an eagle-shaped doorknocker. She knocked it once, and from the eagle's beak came a melodic voice:

'Where do vanished objects go?'

'For heaven's sake,' she snapped. 'Always these puerile questions.'

She cleared her throat and answered:

'The objects don't "go" anywhere, their matter is simply rearranged.'

'Fair enough,' said the knocker, and the door opened to the Ravenclaw common room.

Hermione sat down at a table, facing Lisa Turpin and Mandy Brocklehurst. On Hermione's chest was a blue badge: stretched across it, covering a bronze eagle, was a banner engraved with the words 'Head Girl'. She opened the blue book in front of her.

'Here's what I wanted to show you,' she said and flicked the pages to somewhere near the end. 'This is called "The Tale of the Three Brothers", but it's –'

'Ugh, come on,' said Lisa. 'Are you going to read us a children's story?'

Mandy agreed. 'We've already heard all those stories from The Tales of Beedle the Bard. A thousand times. More, probably.'

'I'm also familiar with that book,' Hermione asserted, 'but this will be a bit different. I promise you'll find it interesting. So, listen.'

Hermione read about the three brothers: how they made a magical bridge to cross a dangerous river; how Death felt cheated on these potential victims, but cunningly congratulated them on their clever magic and awarded them each a prize; how the oldest brother asked for a wand that always wins duels, the second brother asked for the power to bring back the dead, and the youngest brother – who did not trust Death – asked for something that allowed him to be on his way without Death following him, and thus received the Cloak of Invisibility. And how the brothers finally, their prizes in hand, crossed the river and went separate ways.

'We know!' Lisa groaned. 'And then someone who wants his wand kills the first brother, and the next brother kills himself because his dead lover isn't too enthusiastic about coming back to life. But the youngest brother is okay with dying, so he's safe from Death long enough to give the Cloak of Invisibility to his son.'

'Wrong,' said Hermione.

'Wrong?' Lisa whispered, pondering the outlandish concept.

Hermione continued:

'In a distant village' – I know it still sounds the same, but we'll get there in a second – 'In a distant village, the first brother attempted to settle a feud with a fellow wizard. The confrontation led to an intense argument, and then to a duel. Brandishing the all-powerful Elder Wand, the first brother won easily, killing his opponent. He then proceeded to an inn' – where he did not boast loudly of the wand, because he was not an idiot – 'and spent the night. When he awoke the next morning, he felt unusually invigorated. Inspired by his victory from the day before, he was ready to take on the world. He became a legendary warlord and was greatly admired over the centuries for his cultural advancements.

'When the first brother died of old age, Death greeted him and commended him for the millions of souls he had provided, and for the future souls inherent in the people born as a consequence of the flourishing civilisation.

'Meanwhile, the second brother had returned to his lonely house. Once inside, he took out the Resurrection Stone given to him. He turned it thrice in his hand and a young woman appeared – the same girl he had meant to marry before she had tragically died.

'The girl was amazed at her awakening from the dead and was delighted to be alive again. Upon seeing her former lover, she flung herself into his waiting arms. Their marriage was a long and happy one, producing a large and prosperous family.

'When the second brother died, Death greeted him, and although Death was a little annoyed by the second brother's cheating him of the formerly dead girl, he also recognised that their family would eventually grant a significant return on the one soul invested.

'To avoid Death, the Cloak of Invisibility had become an obsession to the third brother, who always craved its protection. One day, not looking where he was going, he tripped on the Cloak's hem. He fell into a deep crevice and the Cloak twisted around him. In the crevice, he first hit a sharp, protruding rock, which broke his spine. Then, his body slid further down the steep walls until he finally settled in complete darkness, a mile into the earth, unable to move or speak. The years passed, but since the Cloak was still wrapped around his frame, Death could never find him. And to this day, the third brother lies awake in a dark hole somewhere, hoping to die.

'Death, of course, is still very upset about the whole affair.'

Hermione closed the book.

'A collector of tales,' she said, responding to the girls' quizzical faces, 'writes what he believes his readers want to hear. I imagine Beedle read this early version and didn't find the second half quite to his tastes.'

'Who wrote the early version?' Mandy asked with her eyes on the book.

Hermione held up the cover. 'John Basil Duncan. A Muggle-born wizard. This is his collection, Five Days. Most likely, Beedle studied it thoroughly.'

'Oh!' said Lisa and Mandy together with keen intonation.

'And as you've probably guessed already,' Hermione added with a proud smile, 'Duncan was a Ravenclaw – like us!'

'Oh …' they said as their gazes sank to the table.

'Harry?' came a voice.

Harry raised his head. On the other side of the table with Lisa, Mandy and Hermione, was – another Hermione. She was older than the one sitting with the blue-tinted book and had a concerned look on her face.

'H-Hermione!' Harry spluttered, and the whole circular room twirled. He dove in reverse through a cold, dark whirlpool and landed in the office again.

'Harry!' Hermione stood plucking his sleeve, eyes wild. 'Harry, what in heaven's name has happened to Dumbledore's portrait?'

He looked at her, then at the drab canvas and the puddle of paint on the floor.

'It's a bit complicated,' he said.

'And the Pensieve – why is the surface cracked? Isn't it meant to be sort of … whole?'

'Long story, Hermione.'

'I'm afraid I don't have time for long stories – I urgently need to speak to Professor McGonagall, and she evidently isn't here. So, please, make it snappy.'

'Right. There was a key on my pillow this morning – Dumbledore recognised the key and told me to drop it in the Pensieve – he was about to tell me something important, when the portrait was splashed, seemingly from the inside.'

'Good heavens!'

'I threw the key in the Pensieve – the Pensieve cracked. The pieces seem to lead to various memories of our time at Hogwarts. But these memories make no sense – they're … different.'

'Different?'

'In the one I just came from, you were a rather cynical Ravenclaw Head Girl.'

'I don't think I'd mind Ravenclaw,' Hermione mused. 'But, obviously, that never happened.'

'Exactly. And Grimmauld Place was not Grimmauld Place; and back in our third year, I was killed by the Knight Bus; and the year before that, I practically maimed most of our class and Dumbledore was sentenced to life in Azkaban.'

'Well!' Hermione said, eyebrows raised. 'That's certainly different.'

'I'm glad we agree. Still, I have no idea what to make of it. And there's no point in going over every bizarre memory in there – it seems to me they don't have any connection to one another, anyway.'

'Who destroyed the portrait, though? There's nothing in any of the paintings at Hogwarts that could have caused so much damage.'

'Search me.'

Hermione leaned over the basin.

'Have you tried the bullseye?' she said.

'What bullseye?'

'There's a circle in the middle – look.'

At the very centre of the cracked web was indeed a tiny disk of glassy substance.

'I see it,' said Harry. 'Doesn't seem to be a memory, though – there's no colour, there's … there's nothing at all in there. If –'

'I have to go find Professor McGonagall now, Harry, I must speak to her. Please send me an owl about how things progress. Oh, and give Ginny my love. Bye.'

She sped off through the door, her bushy hair jumping, and disappeared down the staircase.

Outside the office window, a dense cloud draped the sun. The room turned a dustier hue.

Squinting, Harry leaned over the glimmering Pensieve on the desk. The 'bullseye' was neither dark nor light. Nothing was moving in there.

'Very well, then,' he sighed and pressed it.

Nothing happened.

'Huh. Should've known.'

Harry looked around the office. 'That's it, then. Not much more to do.'

His hands grasped the stone basin and he was just about to lift it.

A green light flashed past in the middle circle. Harry took his hands off the basin and straightened, shooting the Pensieve a troubled look.

He pulled out his wand. Breathing heavily, he turned it over in his hand like a knife, the tip pointing down. He raised the wand above his head, his eyes on the middle of the Pensieve, his knuckles whitening around the wand handle. He held his breath.

The wand stabbed down through the air.

Crack!

A flash lit up the room and was gone.

Harry was on the floor, scrambling to his feet. He brushed off his trousers as he stood up.

'What on earth …?'

The room was swimming in a dark red light. Outside, the sky had turned black – not a thing could be seen on the grounds. Not a sound could be heard.

In the basin, the wand stood as rigid as a flagpole. It had pierced right through the bullseye. Harry gripped the wand-handle and pulled.

Stuck.

He put one hand onto the hardened substance in the Pensieve and tried pulling the wand again.

'Damn it!'

He backed a couple of steps, catching his breath. The wand had not moved an inch. It simply stood there, taunting its master.

'Fantastic. That is just great. McGonagall will be ever so pleased once she –'

The hinges of an old door creaked.

Dumbledore's ruined portrait had opened sideways. Where was formerly a wall, was now a dark tunnel, yawning wide. The few yards illuminated by the red light were surrounded by a stony surface, rippled in red and black relief.

'Really?' Harry scoffed. His pulse was thumping hard in his throat. In his stomach, a prickling chill grew larger. 'This is ridic– ridiculous.'

With legs that did not seem his own, Harry walked to the tunnel and rested a hand on its upper edge. He peered into the hole: beyond the last red reliefs was compact blackness.

He regarded the stone floor. For a hesitant second, he let his foot hang over it. Then, pressing his full weight down, he passed the threshold.

As his shoe hit stone, everything turned cold. He forced his eyes shut, and pursed his lips. He took one step forward, then another, and walked straight ahead into the darkness with his eyes closed.

After a few more yards, Harry gasped. Like one thrown into a nightly ocean, his muscles recoiled at the sudden drop in temperature. Pinching his eyes harder together, he threw his arms around himself and pressed on in jerky steps.

His ears stung, and his fingers and toes were turning numb. Every step hurt, every breath was swallowing ice. The cold scorched him as if all his clothes had been cut off and a sharp frost was scratching his skin raw.

Somewhere from afar, a sound. A faint, tinkling trill.

Harry opened his eyes.