It is Christmas Eve and the castle is subdued. The Great Hall's grand tables have been dispensed with, and the twenty remaining occupants of the castle sit at a small, round table. Three of them are staff; a severe-looking witch with dark hair, a bearded old man, and a jolly younger man much too tall and large for his seat. Then there are the students. A few young boisterous Hufflepuffs laugh and gesture expressively between themselves; the rest are quiet. Most are Ravenclaws forcibly dragged from their parchment and quills - one rubs tired eyes and nods off into her soup distractedly; another furiously mutters mnemonics under her breath. To her left is Remus Lupin - formerly of the Gryffindor table (and now the only Gryffindor present). He pokes at his meal morosely, making an effort to ignore his neighbour's natterings on Urg the Unclean and other Goblin mercenaries.
A handful are Slytherins. Among their number is Snape - for no one has called him Severus in weeks - who tries to distract himself from his neighbour (Mulciber, a thoroughly unpleasant boy) by swirling his empty goblet. He looks up and makes eye contact with Lupin and both boys frown at the mirror image they see opposite them. Remus begins to eat his food in earnest and Snape tunes in to Mulciber, who is blabbering about the Christmas gifts he expects from his father.
All at once, conversation halts. The resounding silence deafens. All at once, the greying old man stands and stares out at the empty Hall in front of him. Well - mostly empty. There are twenty-one remaining occupants in the castle, after all. Some are staff and most are students, and one - a girl - has just appeared from thin air and fallen from the ceiling.
Remus half expects the Ravenclaw besides him to start up on the 18th century Goblin revolutions again.
Harry Potter awakens with a start. She can feel parts of her body waking up too - she can feel something wet on her scalp and her head aches something fierce. She ignores all of this to eavesdrop on low voices near her.
"...needs proper medical assistance, Albus. I cannot do any more for the girl."
"Worry not Professor … I have firecalled Madam Pomfrey post-haste. Hagrid here will watch over her until then."
A gruff voice breaks out - it's familiar but different. "Won't take my eye off her, Professor Dumbledore, sir, Professor McGonagall."
The first voice - a female Scottish brogue - huffs a bit before acquiescing. She leaves. The old man follows her.
It is silent for several long minutes (hours?) before Madam Pomfrey arrives. A few calm, nurturing platitudes wash over her then, and she eases back into sleep.
"Easy there, lass. I'm here now."
When Harry next opens her eyes, she is not alone. The old man from earlier - Dumbledore, her mind informs her - is peering at her kindly. She peers back - she has not forgotten the iron-backed man from earlier, brandishing his wand as she fell.
His eyes twinkle now, though, and something small and sure inside of her tells her he can be trusted.
"Hello," she rasps out. He looks delighted and conjures her water immediately.
"Hello!" He replies as she gulps it down desperately. "I am Professor Albus Dumbledore." He waits patiently.
She clears her throat. "I'm Harry." She's sure he knows that. He does know that, doesn't he? She goes here after all.
Bits and pieces are returning to her now. She was injured in the fight at the Department of Mysteries - she hit her head - after…
Sirius.
He died. He fell through the Veil. But she…followed him. She remembers it now - chasing after him desperately, grasping his shirt, pulling.
"Sirius." She demands. "Is he? I mean, did I save him? Is he alright?"
Dumbledore blinks back at her slowly. Impulsively, she wants to shake him - shake all the answers right out of him. "By all accounts, Sirius Black is alive and well. Or at least he was, when I saw him last."
"You mean you haven't seen him?" She gapes at him. "Is he back at Grimmauld then?"
He considers her again. "He did go home for Christmas break, yes, along with most of his cohort. I last saw him… say, four days ago. Before the holidays."
Frustration rises and she yells then: "Professor - did he or did he not fall through the Veil?"
A glimmer of recognition sparks in Dumbledore's eyes. He ignores her yelling and leans forward. "I have heard rumours of a hidden door deep within the Department of Mysteries. Is this the Veil we speak of?"
"Yes!" She cries out, relieved. "The Veil. Sirius nearly fell through it - Bellatrix stunned him, I think. But I - I caught him, didn't I? I caught his shirt."
"I have every faith you did. Miss - Harry, could you tell me of the events that led up to Sirius' near miss of the Veil?"
"I will answer all your questions after that, I assure you," He adds on seeing her expression.
She eyes him but relents. "If this will help me see him faster… we were in the Department of Mystery - Voldemort had sent me that fake vision," Her voice falters here. "In the Hall of Prophecies, I smashed mine - my prophecy. And, we fought the Death Eaters, and we were falling back, but then the Order came: Sirius, Lupin, Moody and all the rest. Bellatrix followed him, though, and neither could overcome the other for a bit. But then - she sent a stunner, I think, and it got him. Right in the chest. And he sort of fell back. Into the Veil. But I ran and I caught him. Right?"
Dumbledore listens and once she finishes, he leans back and clasps his hands. His eyes are clouded - lost in thought. At last, he speaks: "Harry, my dear, (and some of the old grandfatherly affection has returned to her name at last) I must admit I know little of which you speak. But I am quite sure of this much: you certainly caught your Sirius."
My Sirius? She mouths.
But Dumbledore isn't finished. "But I do not think you pulled him back from the Veil."
She rears back, unspoken horrors flashing through her head.
He continues: "I think he fell through. And, I think, you fell with him." As if his revelation is not shocking enough, he adds on. "Harry, if I may, can you tell me the year?"
"1996."
He smiles as if satisfied. "It is as I suspected. I'm afraid you are partially wrong - in fact, it is December 24th, 1975. Before the Veil, of course, is a completely different matter."
She stares. He could be speaking French for all she understands. He explains: "Harry, I regret to inform you of this, but… you entered the Veil, with your Sirius, in 1996. You left the Veil in 1975."
It returns to her slowly, and then all at once. She remembers grasping his shirt, falling through the Veil, seeing something thrilling and disturbing all at once - myriad worlds and times and people, and eons of cold, uncaring space - and landing. In a time not at all her own.
"Did - did Sirius fall through?" She asks him cautiously, eagerly, trying not to get her hopes up.
She sees the answer in his eyes before he opens his mouth. "I'm afraid not. I suspect that one Sirius was more than enough for this time."
Some latent humour litters his voice there and she realises that - 1975, Sirius must be a student.
"Is he -"
"A fifth year. Gryffindor."
"Like me." She echoes. She lets the thought of it - a youthful, happier Sirius - fill her heart, before focusing. "Professor… how do - can I - get back? To my time?"
Dumbledore looks solemn. "I haven't the faintest idea. If I may speak plainly Harry - I fear you might not be able to."
She swallowed. "But you don't know for sure?"
He nodded. "If there is a way, I will endeavour to find it. In the meantime," He smiles. "You will stay. Go to class with the other fifth-years. Continue your education."
"Sir?" She asks. (She has no one now. No home.)
He rests a comforting hand on her shoulder. "You were a Hogwarts student, were you not? A Hogwarts student you will remain."
He insists on a Sorting. They have crafted a cover story of sorts that skims close enough to the truth - she is an orphaned victim of the emerging war who Apparated here under severe duress - and Dumbledore is insistent on sticking to it. That means she's never been to Hogwarts before, and Professor McGonagall expects her to be Sorted. So she is.
They watch her - all twenty of them - the next night at dinner when McGonagall rests the old hat on her head. Some eye her suspiciously - her cover story has not alleviated all suspicion concerning her arrival. It doesn't help matters that she took breakfast and lunch in the Hospital Wing with Madam Pomfrey and hasn't been seen since last night.
"Curious…" The hat whispers. "I have sorted you before, though I do not remember it."
Harry waits impatiently for its verdict so she may go join the lone Gryffindor (Lupin, her heart cries out) below.
"What makes you so sure I will pick Gryffindor?" A sly voice inserts. "Future-me was right, you know, all the makings of a great witch are right here."
She panics then, mindlessly reaches out and grapples with - nothing. The hat hisses at her. "Budding Occlumencer or not, Harriet Potter, the mind is my domain. Not yours."
She tries to apologise then, but it's too late. The hat's mouth is widening already, and it yells out smugly: "Slytherin!"
She does not remember her walk down to the table. McGonagall's interest has waned - Harry is no longer one of her lions - and Lupin has returned to poking at his chicken. A few of the Slytherins watch her more keenly now - Snape included, goblet forgotten - but she ignores the tentative invitation, sits by Dumbledore instead.
He is watching her with kind eyes. She can't bear to look at him.
Dinner passes quickly. She trails after the Slytherins feeling at odds with Hogwarts for the first time in her life. Her fellow (something within revolts at that) Slytherins ignore her, whispering to each other petty insults and gossip.
She is lagging behind now - she quickens her pace. Ahead, an older boy - Mulciber, she remembers, from dinner - catches her eye and flicks his wand.
She trips. Raucous laughter breaks out - the Slytherins are whole again. Even Snape is welcomed within their numbers as they open the wall and hurry through.
She doesn't know the password to the common room - no one has told her. Instead, she crawls to the blank stretch of wall that conceals the Slytherin common room. This, at least, she knows. Has been here before.
She sits there for a long minute, heart heavy. Something deep within her rebels at this - she thinks: I'll let some petty bullies best me when Voldemort couldn't?
She laughs out loud at the thought. Clambering to her feet, she considers the wall shrewdly and misses the Marauders' Map like a second limb.
Harry tries to recollect all she knows of Salazar Slytherin. The Chamber. Slytherin wasn't like Ravenclaw who'd let anyone with a mind for riddles in. Nor was he similar to Hufflepuff, who punished disloyal intruders with vinegar spat from barrels. Really, Gryffindor and Slytherin bore the most similarities here - both protected their sanctums with nought but a mere password.
Except - the Chamber. Slytherin wanted only his own kin to find it - those who spoke Parseltongue. They only had to be ambitious enough to find it.
That's it, she realised. Slytherin would always provide a path for his own descendants - they just had to prove they were that. Finding it was the test.
She pictured a great looming snake reminiscent of Nagini and hissed, Open.
Snape sat in his usual spot in the corner of the Slytherin common. Usual of course conveyed a sense of levity that it shouldn't - nothing about the spot hadn't been carefully considered. This corner faced both the entrance and the corridor to the dorms, and sat at a reasonable distance from all the others, just close enough that he might listen in and interject with a well-thought out quip if he pleased. And, of course, it was far from the roaring fire: no one with half a brain would think to sit here, alone, in the cold.
In short, it was perfect. So perfect that he, and only he, saw when Harriet Newman opened the wall (the wall to which she had not been given a password), smirked proudly, and stepped through.
Soon enough, the others noticed though. Conversation did not stop - not for a Mudblood, he considered - but it lowered. Enough that she might notice.
It seemed she didn't. Newman marched through with her back straight and head high to the corridor beyond. He heard her stride violently back and forth a bit before clearly finding the fifth-year girl dorms.
Snape strained his ears. Nothing. She was gone. Apparently Mulciber had drawn the same conclusion, for he smirked at Evan Rosier. "She's lucky none of the girls have returned."
Of the Slytherin fifth-years, only Snape and Mulciber remained. Snape wasn't an idiot - he knew perfectly well that was the only reason Mulciber had bothered to talk to him last night. Rosier was a pureblood, but a 6th year, and had his own friends to boot. Part of him sneered at the thought of taking handouts like this, but the other, more reasonable part thought even Mulciber must be better than no one.
The common room settled down, and Snape turned back to his book with one last dark thought for Newman: she had best be ready for when her roommates returned. For among their number was Narcissa Black - and all Slytherins worth their mettle knew the Black sisters took no prisoners.
The sun rose and the castle slumbered peacefully: all of its guests except for one. Harry had tossed and turned all night before accepting defeat.
Spending Christmas alone in a cold, empty room had not helped her morale.
She had changed into one of the spare robes provided by Dumbledore and marched halfway across the Quidditch pitch before remembering her broom had not followed her here. Biting back her frustration, she trekked back to the Quidditch shed, opened it with a quick Alohomora and surveyed its contents.
Cleansweeps and a variety of other old models met her experienced eye. She weighed up the closest, and best-looking, broom and nodded decisively. It would do.
Mere moments later she soared up high in the air. There she sat, watching the last rays of the sun peak over the horizon - an amalgamation of gold and pinkish-purple. The castle seemed miniature from her viewpoint; hopelessly small in the grand scheme of things.
The knowledge grounded her. In the hours before breakfast, Harry sat in the sky and mourned all she had lost. All that she didn't know if she would get back. She knew no solace lay in blind grief, that she would never get back Ron and Hermione and all the others by crying. She would never get back Sirius at all, she thought heavily, biting back a sob. Hours of research lay before her, for when she landed. But, for now at least, she could watch the sky and listen to the birds herald the rising sun.
A calm and collected Harry came down to breakfast that morning. She wanted fiercely to go to the Kitchens instead but thought better of it. She would never come back and face it all otherwise. And face it all, she must.
After all, she quipped to herself, snakes could taste weakness a mile away. And, thought Harry, appraising Snape and Mulciber's glowering countenances, these ones wouldn't hesitate to strike.
She dug into her porridge and studiously avoided looking at both Lupin and Snape too closely.
Remus watched Harriet Newman slink out as soon as she got a chance - looking equal parts miserable and determined. He turned back to his own bowl.
He found her again later anyway. After breakfast, he'd strolled leisurely up to the tower and picked up his books; made for the library. They were only five months out from OWLS, after all. Once there, he made a beeline straight for his usual nook - tucked away in the Divinations section. Hardly anyone frequented there after all.
Rounding the corner, he halted suddenly. Harriet Newman was in his chair, her eyes glued to an incredibly thick tome. She'd stuck it so close to her face her glasses just about touched its yellowed pages. About ten or so more books lay stacked around her. He let out a quiet puff of air out - less than two days in the castle and she'd already found his cherished spot.
Even as absorbed as she was, her head snapped up instantly at the sound, eyes narrowed. They stared at one another for a moment before Remus flushed and hurried off. He hadn't run, he emphasised to himself, ears pink.
Harry watched him go with some small regret. She turned back to her book with even more regret - time travel was an especially dry and theoretical topic, it turned out. The other books she'd found had been even drier.
A few hours later, Harry set the book down with a long, drawn-out groan. "Beyond boring." She told the wall in front of her. It seemed time travel was just boring enough that she couldn't pay attention, but not quite enough that it lulled her off to sleep. So, instead, her mind plagued her with thoughts of Sirius. Her Sirius, not the one that existed here. She had dreamt of him all night - the indescribable look in his eyes when he fell back, arms windmilling out uselessly. (That she was the reason for his death).
She didn't need her dreams to tell her the part she played in the series of events leading up to his death. She had been so stupid, let Voldemort in again.
Abjectly, she slammed her hands on the table and stood decisively. It was no use sitting here, dwelling in the past.
She set off at as fast a walk as she dared, breaking out into a full out run when she cleared the library doors. She sprinted through empty halls, up winding stairs and past narrow passages, legs burning. She hardly knew her destination until she found moving stairs and jumped the gap, just made it, and hit the opposite wall hard, gasping for air.
Something soft swished under her and she fell back at once, looking up at - a tapestry. She relaxed. It was only the tapestry of Barnabus the Barmy, the one that sat on the wall opposite the…Room of Requirement. That was it.
She paced the hall thinking furiously: I need to be stronger than I am now. Better.
A slick grinding sound emanated from the wall and twisting latticework crept across it to form a door. With one last clunk it slid into place and solidified. She opened the door.
A wall of mirrors on every side caught her eye first - reflecting and illuminating every corner of the wide, open room. Mannequins stood in most corners, too, and on the far left sat a dark shelf of manuscripts, novels and curious artefacts. Opposite it, sat a rather innocuous Muggle boxing bag and yoga mat.
Hesitantly, Harry smiled.
Quickly, she developed a familiar routine to her days. She would rise well before the sun, break into the Quidditch shed and fly for a few hours to clear her head of the nightmares (and Sirius' face, which featured in all of them). Then she would scoff down a hasty breakfast (studiously avoiding any watchful eyes), and bury herself in dusty and well-worn tomes.
After several hours, or she got bored - whichever came first - she spent lunch in the Kitchens, a guilty pleasure. Talking to the elves was the only human, well, living, interaction she got now. Avoiding eye contact and counting down the minutes in the Great Hall at dinner-time did not count.
Then, Harry walked (ran) to the Room of Requirement. There she spent most of her time - finding new spells, stretching and most of all, casting. These mirrors were special - they reflected her spells right back at her. Every day she moved closer to them when casting, trying to scrape seconds off her reaction time.
Belatedly, she had scoured the library for more defence texts, before concluding none topped what the Room provided.
Later, after dinner, she read books she stole away from the Room in her dorm until her eyes crossed and the words began to blur. Still - she couldn't sleep. Instead, she snuck outside and ran laps around the Black Lake till she physically couldn't. On the colder nights when it rained and stormed, she would sprint up and down staircases, arms pumping by her side and heart racing in her chest. She never stopped until she chased down a staircase in motion and launched herself across it, adrenaline racing. Professors didn't patrol in the Christmas holidays, after all - hardly any of them stayed.
When she finally snuck back into Slytherin, she only ever encountered an empty room and a cold fire. All the others had long ago gone to sleep - she never saw them outside of meals, rising before them, and sleeping later.
Pure mental and physical exhaustion and a hot shower usually joined forces to allow her a few good hours of sleep before she woke up to do it all over again.
The rigour helped the days waste away quickly - before she realised the last day of break came. At breakfast, the summons came - Professor Dumbledore's smooth voice broke out just as she jumped up from the bench.
"Miss Newman - might I see you in my office after breakfast? I'd hoped we could sort out your schedule before class started." His eyes twinkled at her, ignorant of the anxiety twisting in her gut. He swept out of the room, adding: "I've received some sweets you might like to try, too - I'm especially fond of Cockroach Clusters myself."
She climbed the stairs slowly with the same trepidation building in her. Not much had changed - the same Gryphon knocker as before guarded the Headmaster's office. "Cockroach Clusters," she whispered.
It swivelled clunkily to reveal the room, and Headmaster, before her. "Professor," She said.
"Harriet," He smiled, ushering her into the plush eggplant-coloured armchair opposite his desk.
"Have you found anything, sir? About - about me going home?"
His smile drooped, "No, unfortunately not." He hesitated, "Harry, I've heard whisperings of a Slytherin girl running about the castle and grounds at all hours."
She stared at him stubbornly, arms crossed. He peered at her nervously, "I don't mean to tell you off, my dear, but…are you alright?"
She pushed down the rising grief instinctively, and snapped back instead. "Let's see - I'm stranded in 1975, alone, and I'm probably never going to get back home. What do you think?"
The venerable old Professor didn't rise to the bait, his expression softening instead. He looked at Harry with far too much understanding for her liking.
"I'm sorry sir. You wanted to talk about my classes?" She asked, pushing past valiantly with just one sniff.
He let her, nodding. "We've enrolled you in all the compulsory fifth-year classes, of course - Charms, Herbology, Defence Against the Dark Arts, History of Magic, Potions, Transfiguration, Astronomy. But for electives - well, see for yourself."
He offered her an information pamphlet. She looked up with surprise - "We never had half of these!"
"How curious," Dumbledore puzzled.
But, her thoughts sobering, we never had half the students Hogwarts must have now. She's seen glimpses of dorms and rooms much larger than those in her time - the Wizarding War had done a thorough job of killing off much of Lily and James' cohort.
Turning her mind to the electives at hand forcibly, she perused the list. It had all the usual ones, with some interesting additions: Magical Languages, Wizarding Music and Art, Hearth Studies, Magical Theory, Healing…
"I took Care of Magical Creatures before." She told him. "I'd like to continue that. But - what's Magical Theory?"
"It's rather self-explanatory I suppose. We look at the development of magic, its nuances, and well, some more obscure magics. Say, for instance, time travel."
He tried to look casual when Harry's head snapped up. "Time travel? Hold on," Her eyes narrowed. "We?"
"I must not have mentioned it - I teach Magical Theory. It's a rather small class by all accounts." The old man's eyes sparkled.
Harry shook her head, "Can I join - even though I didn't take it before?"
Dumbledore nodded easily. "It's rather easy to catch up, truth be told. The textbook should help."
He added then, "Which, I will have sent to you tonight - along with some of your other equipment."
Harry spoke reluctantly, "Professor, I- I don't have any money."
He seemed unsurprised. "Yes, I rather thought so. Fortunately, Hogwarts possesses a small fund for these occasions - it should cover everything quite nicely."
Harry nodded uneasily. "Thank you, then. Is that -"
"That's all," Dumbledore took mercy at her, smiling genially. "You're free to go now - but I must advise some subtlety on your run tonight." He looked at her meaningfully.
Harry's cheeks burned when she left. She walked to the library and settled herself in her usual nook, feeling oddly light.
After dinner, Harry found Dumbledore's packages lying on her bedspread. On top lay a letter:
Dear Harry,
I have taken the liberty to get your books and a few other things I think you may find helpful. If you need anything else, please don't hesitate to ask.
Professor Dumbledore.
One package held all her schoolbooks - most of which hadn't changed. The next she ripped open to reveal some more garments - under-robes and ties for school, several trousers, skirts, and shirts for leisure (she noticed a set of joggers with satisfaction). Her cheeks flushed at the small pile of underthings. The third, and final brown-paper parcel held only one book. It was thick but unassuming - grey and drab-looking. Herbology for the Hopeless, she puzzled. Her eyes widened with understanding when she flipped it open to reveal it was hollow, and held another, smaller black book within. "The Auror's Handbook," she read, awed, tracing the gold-embossed words.
Opening the crisp pages, she read: "Chapter 1: Spell chains."
If anyone were to peer into her room that night, they would see only a small, dark head bent over her Herbology textbook. If they looked closer, however, they would see keen eyes racing across the pages, and lips furiously mouthing incantations. Beside her lap, her hand unconsciously moved in tight, quick gestures as if to mimic the moving illustrations depicted in the book.
As it happens, no one did look in on Harry that night. But, of course, if an old man in his office happily noted empty halls for the first night since Harry's arrival, well - who's to say?