Chapter 4:
A/N: A new job has messed with my writing schedule, but I'm going to do my best to get at least one of similar length out every week. Once I get the hang of things, it might speed up a bit, but for now I'll just do my best to keep them coming every week. I'd love to hear any thoughts and opinions in reviews or PMs. Feedback is the lifeblood of the author, after all.
"Potter!" shouted Aberforth. It was the fifth time since about seven in the morning, and the intervals grew shorter with every bellow.
Harry groaned, and rolled over on his new bed. It was brand new. Harry had never slept in a brand new bed before. Surely it needed worn-in, to get accustomed to its job, so Harry had endeavoured to spend as much time as possible asleep in it. He had promised not to hex his employer, so instead he Conjured a teddy bear and tore it to shreds with a growled Bombarda.
Soft white stuffing floating all around was actually a rather soothing image to wake up to. It cheered Harry up about half as much as exploding a teddy bear had, so he finally relented to Aberforth's demanding shouts, and staggered downstairs.
"What did I ask you last night, Aberforth?" Harry asked, in an extremely aggravated voice.
Aberforth glared at him from the table he was sitting at, and slapped his copy of The Daily Prophet onto its sticky surface.
"You asked me if I was fucking my goat," Aberforth snarled. "Four times. In front of customers."
"What?" asked Harry, bewildered. The previous night was a bit hazy. He'd been staying at The Hog's Head for about a week now, and was regularly subjected to what Aberforth called learning on the job and Harry called attempting to best his patrons in the calculation of their chance and alcohol consumption. In Aberforth's eyes, the barman must be as drunk as the average man in the pub in order to properly understand his clientele and cater to their demands, yet also capable of handling six customers' orders at once, work out their change correctly, and beat the snot out of them if they bickered too much about it.
Old Harry could have handled it. Last night, Harry could not, and this morning, Harry couldn't recall ever accusing Aberforth of doing anything to poor Betsie.
"Alright, then," spat Aberforth. "Keep your semantics. You asked me three times, shortchanged Mundungus Fletcher by half a galleon and threatened to bar him for life if he argued, had another drink, and then shouted that I was a LIAR and demanded that I confess in front of the Hog's Head Wizengamot Division to be tried for my crimes."
Despite the volume and anger of Aberforth's little tirade, Harry could see him struggling to stop the edges of his lips quirking up into a smile. Aberforth tried to pick up his copy of the Daily Prophet. It resisted for a moment, then gave way with a ripping sound. Part of the back page was stuck to the table. Harry wished for the hundredth time that Aberforth would let him charm the tables to be moisture-repellant, but the two of them were matched in stubbornness.
"I'd fire you on the spot," mused Aberforth, his pretence at anger gone, and replaced with an odd expression. "But I've never seen anyone do business with Fletcher and come away with more money than when they started. The little bastard gets mugged on purpose so he can pick the muggers pockets, did you know?"
Harry was slightly concerned by how close Aberforth's tones were to respect, because he knew that it wasn't directed at Harry bettering a crook, but rather awe at the depth of Fletcher's petty criminal activities.
Suddenly, Aberforth turned his attention fully back to Harry, curiosity in his eyes.
"Anyway, Potter," began Aberforth.
"Anyway, Aberforth," interrupted Harry. "You still haven't answered my question. What ELSE did I ask you last night?"
"What? Oh. Don't call you Potter. Have it your way, boy."
"No, you goat-fucking cadaver! To call me Harry," said Harry insistently as he walked across the room, attempting to make his way to the kitchen in the back room. Since he was awake, he figured that he may as well make some breakfast.
"Don't be absurd. We're not friends. I'm a century older than you. It'd be ridiculous," replied Aberforth, trying in vain to peel the last page of The Prophet off his table.
Harry snorted.
"If you're not my friend, what are you?" he asked. Despite the constant bickering and abuse thrown both ways, an easy if temperamental camaraderie had grown between the two men. Harry imagined that it stemmed from the fact that neither of them gave a shit about petty insults, and that each of them gave as good as they got.
Aberforth shrugged.
"Your role model," he answered.
"What?" exclaimed Harry, in a burst of shocked laughter.
"I'm not being your fucking hero, Potter. Role model is as high as I'm willing to go. No more bargaining," said Aberforth flatly, turning back to his paper.
Harry made a muted noise of disbelief, and elected not to reply, carrying on towards the kitchen, where the promise of bacon and eggs waited.
Aberforth grabbed his arm as he passed. Harry groaned. The old bastard had an iron grip, if iron could be a bit wrinkly. A corrugated iron grip, perhaps. Which he wasn't letting go.
"What now, Dumbledore?" asked Harry sarcastically.
Aberforth actually punched him in the gut, although not very hard.
"I told you never to fucking call me that again," he snapped.
"Can you spell hypocrite? I bet Dumbledore can," taunted Harry.
"Fuck off, Potter. Know why I've been shouting myself hoarse trying to get your lazy arse down here?"
"Because you're a bastard?" asked Harry, much more interested in his bacon than whatever tedious chore that Aberforth couldn't be bothered to do might be.
"No. This," said Aberforth, pointing to an article in The Daily Prophet.
Harry caught a glimpse of the headline: BOY-WHO-LIVED TAKEN TO MUNGO'S ISOLATION WARD AFTER TIME-TURNER TRAGEDY. He read through the first few paragraphs of Trelawney-style predictions of Harry's impending death or mutilation, interspersed with Skeeter's typical accusations of Ministry incompetence and negligence, and rather enjoyed a Skeeter article for the first time in his life before noticing a terrible crime.
"Hey, wait a minute!" he cried, so visibly distraught that even Aberforth looked surprised at his reaction. "Page four? Page fucking four? I should be the cover story!" Aberforth laughed mockingly, and shook his head.
"You're almost as much of an egotistical twat as your father, Potter," said Aberforth.
"Thank you," replied Harry, distractedly but sincerely.
"But we both know that this story is a crock of shit. Even if I hadn't noticed the author's tagline, this is not a hospital, despite the medicinal properties of many of the drinks we serve."
Harry didn't answer. Aberforth didn't let go of his arm. In fact, he squeezed it until Harry winced.
"Okay, fine, I'm a time traveller. I came back from the year -" Harry stopped speaking suddenly as Aberforth clapped a hand over his mouth.
"I don't want to know anything about the future. Since you're here, it's gone now, and we've got the present to deal with instead. But what's with the story? Fucked up the spell and got, I don't know, time-splinched?" asked Aberforth, hazarding a guess and finally releasing his grip.
Harry shook his head.
"Got an anonymous tip sent to The Prophet as a cover story."
"Not everyone will buy that heap of lies, boy," said Aberforth, in a warning tone. Harry grinned, because that was all part of his plan. Plant the seed of doubt, let the rumour mills churn out whatever they like, but end up with the result that - somehow - it's possible that Harry Potter can step over an Age Line.
"Oh, I know. But most people are dumb as rocks and will believe anything just because it's in their newspaper. And it's a convenient excuse for what I'm going to do. I need to be overage for the next step of my plan."
"Learn how to drink like a wizard?" asked Aberforth.
Harry considered a few sharp retorts, but bit them back in favour of the truth.
"I'm going to win the Triwizard Tournament."
"Huh," said Aberforth, eloquently.
Harry took advantage of Aberforth's loss of words to slip past. Soon he had a pan filled high with eggs and bacon, and the scent was wafting delightfully through the air. Harry wondered whether it was the smell of bacon or the newspaper article which had caused Aberforth to follow him into the kitchen.
"Hungry?" asked Harry. "I know you usually stick to a liquid diet, but bacon is good for hangovers. Hell, food in general is good for hangovers."
"I don't have a hangover, Potter," grumbled Aberforth.
"I do. And if you're in a good mood after eating a decent breakfast you're less likely to make my head throb any worse than it already is," said Harry.
"Alright, then, I'll make you a deal. You make breakfast and milk Betsie when you've eaten, and I'll let you explain to me what the fuck you're planning to do now that you're back in the present."
Harry turned the bacon, careful not to jostle the eggs and split the runny yolk open.
"I do chores in exchange for telling you my secrets? That's hardly a fair deal," he said.
"A burden shared is a burden halved. I'd be doing you a favour by listening, so spill the beans already."
Harry paused, remembering what Aberforth had said only minutes ago.
"Wait, I thought you didn't want to know about the future, about why I travelled back in time?"
"I don't. Your old future is gone. I'm guessing Voldemort, and I want nothing to do with that bastard except the ability to stay out of his way. But I want to know what you're doing now that you're back here."
"Pass me the plates," said Harry. Aberforth grumbled, but dug around in a cupboard to find some nearly clean cutlery and crockery. Harry loaded them up with food, and took them to the table in the front room where Aberforth had been sitting previously.
The two men sat and chewed in silence for a while, with Aberforth giving Harry demanding looks between bites, until at last Harry began to speak.
"You're right. Voldemort. He came back about a year from now. I'll give you the short version - we managed to kill him, but it didn't work. He kept coming back."
"Albus has been harping on about how he wasn't really dead for years, but what do you mean, kept coming back?"
Harry gave Aberforth a mischievous grin.
"You wanted to know this before Albus, right? Be the one with all the answers while he flounders in the dark for the first time in your life?"
"Damn straight," muttered Aberforth, setting his fork down beside his plate cleaned of everything but grease. He laid it on the floor beside his chair, and Betsie the goat came over to lick it clean.
"He didn't die properly because he's created Horcruxes - soul anchors. I'm sure you can figure out what they do from that description."
Aberforth grunted, and scratched irritably at a pockmark on his cheek.
"Body gone, left as a ghost?"
"Wraith, actually," said Harry, "And it's a bit more complicated than that. He's not an echo of a person, like true ghosts, but a splinter of one, floating around in the ether. Well, Albania, actually, but that's not important."
"So you came back to destroy these Horcruxes before he managed to resurrect himself?" asked Aberforth.
Harry shrugged.
"I'll do that along the way, but that's not so important. His soul has been so damaged by creating these Horcruxes that he can't exist in the state of flux that a wraith inhabits after performing the ritual which resurrected him. It didn't just bring him back to life, it altered him on a fundamental level. Every time we managed to kill him, the ritual would reactivate, and he'd reform. It took him thirteen years to make himself a new body the first time. The second time, it was less than a year. He got quicker every time, until he was so adept at his own resurrection that he'd willing sacrifice himself as a distraction to let his minions do their dirty work."
"Doesn't sound like him. He'd never put himself in danger when he could send Death Eaters in his place," said Aberforth.
"That's the thing. There was a moment when he realised what was happening, that he truly had beaten mortality. And he used that. We'd create elaborate traps to kill him, and he'd walk into them deliberately, just so his followers could pick off the members of the Order who had tried to kill him. His own body was a renewable fucking resource."
"Too much future," grumbled Aberforth. "Get back to the present."
"Right. Well, the Horcruxes are what damaged his soul and caused the ritual to become permanent, instead of a one-time deal. I'll need to destroy them at some point, sure, but mostly I'm here to botch his ritual."
"Stop him from coming back?" asked Aberforth.
"No," said Harry. "It might take him another thirteen years, but he'd find another way. I need to let it happen, but under my terms. Strip him of his ability to reincarnate at will. Then I can deal with him the same way you deal with any other Dark Lord."
"Long, bloody war?" asked Aberforth sarcastically.
"Probably," said Harry. Aberforth sat back in silence, obviously not expecting that response.
"Then what's the point of you even coming back?"
"To make him mortal. There have been Dark Lords before, all striving for immortality. Voldemort succeeded because he delved too deep into ancient magic and damaged himself enough to damage the ritual. Unfortunately the changes only made him stronger. My blood, his father's bone, and his servant's flesh made him permanent. Because of this."
Harry raised a finger and tapped his scar.
Aberforth squinted.
"Looks a lot more faded than when I last saw a picture of it," he said, speculatively. He eyed Harry after speaking, expecting an explanation.
"When Voldemort tried to kill me, he accidentally made me into a horcrux. So when he used my blood in the ritual, he added a fourth component. His own soul anchor. His own means of resurrection."
"Fuck," said Aberforth, astutely.
"Yeah."
"Bone, blood, and flesh to build a body were all he planned for. But by accident he added the tool of his own resurrection to that body, granting it that power. His soul was twisted enough that the ritual worked. He was so far changed that his soul hardly recognised the horcrux in my blood as a horcrux. Rather than rejoining his soul, it joined the ritual of rebirth and entered his flesh, making Voldemort his own living, eternal Horcrux."
"So that's why your scar faded? The horcrux isn't there any longer?"
"It didn't get removed in the ritual, if that's what you're asking," said Harry. "It was just its presence which changed things. It was as much symbolic as anything else. I got rid of it later."
"So that's why it looks like that now?" asked Aberforth.
Harry nodded in assent, idly tracing the lightning bolt on his forehead with a fingertip. It had faded from red into a muted silver colour, and was much harder to see than before, which suited Harry fine. People tended to stare at his forehead less when there wasn't anything to see.
"And Albus doesn't know any of this?" demanded Aberforth suddenly, snapping Harry out of his reverie.
"Uh - no. Not much. Only that I'm from the future and will be entering the Triwizard Tournament to stop Voldemort's plans. Although I think he's been speculating about Horcruxes for a while, he doesn't know the details."
"Best that way. He'd meddle and ruin whatever you've got planned." Aberforth started beaming, all of a sudden. The expression looked out of place on the usually-surly barman. "Hah! And Albus has to take the back bench and let some snot nosed brat run the show this time. I'll bet that's tearing him up inside!" he exclaimed in tones of glee.
Harry gave him a quizzical impression.
"I get the feeling that you don't like your brother very much."
"He's my brother," said Aberforth, as if that explained everything.
Being an only child, Harry didn't understand. Aberforth rolled his eyes and explained.
"I despise him some days. For what he's done. For the ridiculous airs he puts on. For thinking that he's better than the rest of us. But he's my brother." Aberforth sighed, and looked at the tabletop for a long, long time, a sour look crossing his face, and removing all traces of his previous mirth.
"For Ariana," said Harry under his breath.
Aberforth's fists suddenly tightened into a white-knuckled grip, and he stood up so quickly that his chair fell to the ground. For a moment Harry thought that he was going to strike him, and reached for his wand, but then Aberforth sighed, and opened his hands, looking older than Harry had ever seen him.
"He told you?" asked Aberforth, his voice hoarse.
"He told me that you, he, and Grindelwald all duelled. Ariana got caught in the crossfire. Nobody knows whose spell it was, but he blames himself. It haunts him every day."
Aberforth gave a bitter laugh.
"Oh, yes, I hated him for that. In the chaos it was impossible to tell who was who, and which spell came from which wand."
A dark look washed over Aberforth's features.
"I told him that I didn't see whose spell killed her either. Because he's my brother."
A cold knot formed in Harry's stomach as he began to realise what Aberforth was saying.
"I've never told anybody this, but I know what my brother's like. He likes to be in control, above it all. Maybe the detachment of sitting high in his tower makes it easier for him to shuffle around the lives of us, down here. But he's a good person under it all, even though he came so close to the edge. He's a good man - by choice. And that's what makes all the difference."
Harry leaned closer, worried, but Aberforth was still speaking, his voice dropping with every word. It was almost as if he wanted to say the words to Harry, but could not bear to hear them himself.
"It was Albus who killed her," Aberforth finally said, in a chilling tone.
Aberforth stood silently, staring into space. Harry didn't dare interrupt the silence; didn't know what he could possibly say to that. After some time had passed, Aberforth righted his chair and sat down, dropping his head in his hands.
"I never told him. He's my brother. And for all that I hate him for it, it was an accident. I saw how much guilt the possibility brought down on him. Knowing the truth would have destroyed him back then. So much time has passed, but even now, it eats at him. His darkest shame."
Aberforth looked up at Harry sharply.
"Nobody knows this. But if Albus goes too far - if he tries to stop you, and you have no choice but to force your will on a man who never backs down…" Aberforth trailed off, looking miserable.
"He doesn't fear death or threats. He's too powerful to be swayed by force, and too convinced of his own brilliance to listen to the logic of others when he's already made up his mind," he said. Aberforth gritted his teeth and glared, biting out every word. "Albus killed Ariana. It's the only weapon you have against him if he decides to stand in your way."
"Why would you tell me this? Harry asked, his voice hoarse. He'd known the man a scant handful of days, and already he'd revealed his greatest secret.
"You might need to use it against him, one day. If he decides to interfere with whatever your machinations are. For the greater good," Aberforth said, spitting out the last three words as if they were poisonous. "I may have come to terms with what happened, but sometimes Albus makes mistakes. They're rare. But they're big."
"I won't tell him unless there's no choice," said Harry in a muted voice, shocked at the revelation. He'd always known it was a possibility, but hearing it outright stunned him to the core. And he couldn't believe that Aberforth was trusting him with this knowledge.
"Hnf," grunted Aberforth. "Tell him without good reason and I'll kill you myself."
Harry could hear that Aberforth was completely serious with that statement, and frowned. The cold in his stomach turned to ice. For all the times he'd argued with Dumbledore, telling him something like that would hurt him so deeply that Harry knew he would hate himself for revealing that horrible, long-buried truth. He let out a long sigh. This was too much to take in.
"Sometimes your closest allies can be the most dangerous foes," he muttered to himself, sinking back in his chair.
"Enough," snapped Aberforth. "Don't talk about this with me again. I'll protect you from my brother, but hurt him without cause and I'll have your head over my mantelpiece. Go milk Betsie."
Aberforth stormed away, leaving Harry feeling more confused than ever. He'd feared that Dumbledore would get in the way of his plans, but had never thought that he might have to bring up so old and deep a wound to stop him from interfering. Harry sighed. Aberforth was right. Dumbledore meant well, but was too used to doing things his way, and only his way. He'd lived too long with nobody willing and able to stand against him as an equal.
By greeting Dumbledore as an old friend, Harry had hoped to instill a deeper level of trust from the onset, pretending that he'd been closer to Albus than they had actually been. His plan had been to reinvigorate a close friendship from the future that was entirely fictional, but he'd always known it could fall apart at any moment if Dumbledore saw through it. Or simply not be enough, if Dumbledore was too convinced in his own actions to give Harry free reign.
"Fuck," said Harry, and slammed his head into the table. This was worse than the hangover. At least in Aberforth he had found perhaps the only other person who understood Dumbledore properly: a good man who makes terrible mistakes.
Determined not to think about it for the time being, Harry chose to distract himself with the chores required to keep The Hog's Head in shape, beginning with the one Aberforth had just given him.
"C'mon Betsie," he said.
The goat followed him without any further coaxing to the woodshed, where a stool and milking pail were kept. Harry narrowed his eyes at Betsie, remembering that Aberforth had once been in trouble with the law for performing unusual Charms on a goat. The animal did seem uncommonly smart and well-behaved for a goat.
Harry shrugged, and got down to work. Milking a goat wasn't the most interesting job in the world, but at least it was a distraction. He didn't want to think about any of the Dumbledore family for a good while.
It was worrying indeed when Voldemort was a more pleasant thing to think about than Dumbledore.
As he'd said to Aberforth, Harry did intend to destroy the Horcruxes. They were a low priority compared to interfering with the ritual, but would need to be dealt with at some point. The scar and diary were already dead. Nagini had yet to be created. Rowena's Diadem could be dealt with once Harry was inside Hogwarts, and he'd need to get in touch with Sirius to get to Salazar's Locket. The Cup of Helga Hufflepuff would be the most difficult to reach, and Harry was worried about how to deal with the Withering Curse on Marvolo Gaunt's ring.
Harry grimaced.
Perhaps it would be best to destroy the Horcruxes before the ritual happened, just in case. That way he wouldn't risk Voldemort moving them to more secure locations.
The problem was that he wanted to salvage the artifacts without destroying them. He thought he had an idea for doing that, but it would be difficult and time-consuming to try experimenting on Voldemort's Horcruxes directly, without knowing for sure he had a method that would work.
Harry had been thinking about this since before travelling back into the past. He'd even considered making a Horcrux himself so he could experiment on safe ways to extract the soul fragment, but the idea was repulsive. A practice Horcrux would be ideal, but Harry shuddered at the thought of creating one, though he knew the process inside out.
But surely Voldemort wasn't the only one out there afraid of death, and willing to commit murder for immortality. It would be a dangerous road to travel, but perhaps there would be a way for Harry to get his hands on a practice Horcrux, after all. It was an ugly thought, but Harry had done terrible things before in the war against Voldemort.
Harry grimaced. He'd deal with it later. There was time. And if he had to destroy the Founders' Artifacts, then that was just how it would have to be. Better that than Voldemort's spirit roaming free, even in his weakened state.
Betsie bleated, and Harry was shaken loose from his thoughts. The pail was almost full. He picked it up, and began to carry it towards the icebox in the kitchen. He realised he'd forgotten to open the door for Betsie, and took a step back towards the woodshed to free her, when she appeared in front of him with a pop. Harry took a step back in surprise, drawing his wand. Betsie just bleated at him again in an annoyed tone, and walked off.
There was definitely something off with that goat. And that pop had sounded very familiar, but Harry couldn't think when he'd heard it before.
He ditched the pail into the icebox, and set about his daily chores. It didn't take long, even without the aid of magic. Although Harry could do it in a fraction of the time with his wand, he found himself agreeing with Aberforth. There was a simple pleasure in doing things yourself. Even cleaning.
Weeks later, Harry woke up from a lovely, relaxing, and altogether dreamless sleep, only to turn to face the calendar pinned to his wall. Today's date was circled in red. August the twenty-third. Harry's good mood immediately fell away.
This was supposed to be the night he woke up in pain before dawn, having dreamt of Voldemort. The first touch of their bond through the Horcrux. Harry rubbed his scar absently, and sighed. Well, that proved it was definitely gone, but for some reason he'd expected the dream anyway.
He lay back in bed, deciding to sleep some more, when something impacted against his window with a soft thump.
Harry pushed open the shutters, and then the window, seeing nothing outside. Suddenly a tiny owl darted in, chirping excitedly. Hedwig hooted disdainfully at the smaller owl, and turned back to cleaning her feathers. Harry smiled, recognising the pygmy owl.
Harry — DAD GOT THE TICKETS — Ireland versus Bulgaria, Monday night. Mum's writing to the Muggles to ask you to stay. They might already have the letter, I don't know how fast Muggle post is. Thought I'd send this with Pig anyway.
We're coming for you whether the Muggles like it or not, you can't miss the World Cup, only Mum and Dad reckon it's better if we pretend to ask their permission first. If they say yes, send Pig back with your answer pronto, and we'll come and get you at five o'clock on Sunday. If they say no, send Pig back pronto and we'll come and get you at five o'clock on Sunday anyway.
Hermione's arriving this afternoon. Percy's started work — the Department of International Magical Cooperation. Don't mention anything about Abroad while you're here unless you want the pants bored off you.
See you soon —
Ron
Harry laughed aloud, and stole an owl treat from Hedwig's tray to give to Ginny's tiny, hyperactive owl. He could fondly remember the letter sent by Molly Weasley, covered in a hundred stamps, asking the Dursleys' permission to take him to the cup. He still hadn't decided whether he was going to attend the match or not, but the Weasleys' invitation was still a welcome sight.
He took the letter with him and went to find Aberforth. When he couldn't find the old codger at first, Harry assumed he was still in bed, but eventually he found the older man chopping firewood out by the back door.
"Didn't you say you're closing the pub for a few nights?" asked Harry.
"Right," grunted Aberforth between swings. "Half the wizarding world is off to the Quidditch World Cup."
"I'd wager everyone who couldn't get a ticket would be eager to drown their sorrows on that night and buy enough to make up for the missing customers," teased Harry.
"Right," agreed Aberforth.
"So why're you closing the pub?"
"Isn't it obvious? I'm going," said Aberforth, dropping his wood-axe on the floor and turning to watch Harry. "What's your point? If you're after tickets, you know Fletcher's got his grubby little hands on some he's looking to sell. He's been flogging them in here all week."
That struck Harry as odd. Aberforth didn't seem like the festive type.
"Who're you going with?" he asked.
"Albus," replied Aberforth. "He gets sent a dozen invitations every time there's a cup. Politicians jostling to get some time to whisper in his ear. He always brings me along to get drunk and belligerent when they become too overbearing, so we can actually have a good time."
After the revelation of Ariana's death a fortnight ago, Harry was startled by the prospect of the two brothers going to a Quidditch match together, but he supposed it was ancient history for them, even if the old wound had never healed. Albus even came down to the pub for a drink once or twice a week, so Harry supposed that they must get along to some extent these days. Although he had noticed that Albus' visits had always been conveniently timed to match Harry's nights off. Harry suspected Aberforth was trying to keep him out of Dumbledore's clutches and questions, which was unnecessary, and yet Harry found it oddly endearing. He was growing to like the crotchety bastard, and said bastard seemed to be looking out for him, too.
"Take a look at this," said Harry, showing Aberforth Ron's letter.
"You going?" he asked, eloquent as always.
"I haven't decided yet. Already seen the match, but it was a good one. And then…" Harry trailed off.
Aberforth caught his hesitation.
"Something happened there?"
"Yeah. And I can't stop it, or it'd set things off track. I need the Death Eater who causes the trouble to think he's got away with it - at least for a little while," said Harry, frustrated.
As much as he'd like to capture Barty Crouch Junior at the Quidditch cup, he knew that he needed to let events pan out as before until the right moment. He didn't have long to wait, but he needed Crouch to be in Hogwarts so Voldemort would think his plan was progressing as hoped.
"Deal with it," said Aberforth callously."
"What?" exclaimed Harry.
"Sometimes you just have to let things go. Whatever's happening, it doesn't ruin the match, right? You said you'd seen it," said Aberforth, puzzling out Harry's words.
"That's right. It happened afterwards, when the winners were celebrating," said Harry.
"The winners? Come on Potter, give me the details. Who won?" demanded Aberforth.
Harry gave him a curious expression.
"Wouldn't knowing in advance spoil the match?" he asked.
"Not if you've got a heavy wager ready to be placed. You travelled back in time for a reason, Potter, and if it wasn't my financial gain, I don't know what it was. All you've done so far is help earn me money by keeping the pub working harder than before, serving customers quicker, and cheating Fletcher out of his change time and time again."
Harry grinned. After the drunken night he couldn't quite remember, he'd made a bit of a game out of giving Fletcher the wrong change on purpose every time he served the sleazy little crook. To balance things out, he occasionally gave him too much money, so Fletcher kept coming back in the hopes that he'd come out on top in the end. Unfortunately for him, Harry and Aberforth were keeping track carefully of just how much they were robbing from the weaselly little man. It was the same problem every gambler faced; they always come back in the hopes that this time the cards will be in their favour.
"What's in it for me?" asked Harry.
"Split the winnings?" offered Aberforth. Harry shook his head.
"That goes without saying. Sweeten the deal."
"Tell you what. I'll get Albus home straight after the match for a family reunion nightcap. That way he won't interfere with whatever's going to happen. And thirty percent of the winnings," Aberforth said, trying to haggle.
Harry smiled, knowing that Dumbledore hadn't been involved the first time around, but he didn't object to a little extra gold. And knowing the odds, there'd be a significant sum coming their way after the match.
"How much are you betting?" he asked.
"Hundred Galleons," said Aberforth.
"Double it," said Harry. "All out of your pocket, mind you. I've got great odds for you."
"Spill," demanded Aberforth.
"Ireland beats Bulgaria, 170 to 160. But Bulgaria catches the Snitch."
Aberforth whistled.
"I'll get some decent gold out of a bet that specific."
"Whoever you gamble with, make sure it's not Ludo Bagman," Harry warned, remembering Fred and George's extensive attempts at getting their money back.
Aberforth snorted.
"I'm not an idiot. Everyone knows he's balls-deep in debts to the goblins and they're just waiting for the opportunity to eviscerate him. It's the goblins I'm going to put my wager with."
Harry cocked his head in confusion.
"I thought goblins were renowned for being miserly with gold. Not the sort of creature you want to be asking for your huge payoff from."
Aberforth gave a dark chuckle.
"Nah, goblins aren't miserly. They're sticklers for rules. Their rules, not wizard ones. Sometimes wizards and goblins disagree on what belongs to who. They get violent about it. Rebellions. Sabotage. Strongly-worded letters. It's just that they don't give a damn for wizard rules, but on the occasion of debts with Gringotts, it's goblin rules which apply."
"What's the difference?" asked Harry.
"You owe a wizard some money, maybe he hexes you, maybe he brings in the DMLE and you get forced to pay up, one way or another. Sometimes fines, sometimes a holiday in Azkaban. The goblins don't do fines. Fail to pay them what you owe, and they'll bloody eviscerate you. Bloodily," cackled Aberforth.
"And the Ministry lets them do it?" asked Harry.
"Yup," said Aberforth. "Outcome of the last rebellion. Goblin laws apply to goblin debts. And believe me, goblins are always looking for an opportunity to eviscerate a wizard. So they'll take wagers, and usually the house wins. Like all gambling. But every now and then somebody wins big, and they let it slide, in the hopes that he - or another wizard - will come back in with high hopes and empty pockets. And when the term of repayment is over, and a wizard can't pay up…"
Aberforth picked up the wood-axe and pressed it to Harry's belly, running it slowly across his stomach.
"Vicious little bastards. They like their gold, but they like killing more. They opened the Quidditch gambling office after we banned bloodsports."
Harry felt queasy at hearing this.
"Ireland 170, Bulgaria 160," he reminded Aberforth, unwilling to be accessory to homicide-by-Quidditch-bet.
"And Bulgaria catches the Snitch. I got it," said Aberforth.
Harry rubbed his stomach uneasily.
"So," said Aberforth conversationally, apparently completely at ease with the possibility of goblin swords in his belly, "Are you going to go?"
Harry thought for a moment. It'd be odd to see his friends again, some younger, some alive once again. In all honesty, he was nervous about meeting them again.
"I haven't decided."
"It's not far off. Decide quick," grunted Aberforth, swinging the wood-axe back onto a log, splitting it into kindling for the fire.
That reminded Harry. The Weasleys' thought he was still at Privet Drive. Whether he replied or not, they'd be Flooing into the Dursleys' bricked-off fireplace if he didn't tell them otherwise. He smiled, remembering the madness of that afternoon, and went back inside.
Pigwidgeon was still fluttering about his room, waiting for a reply, no doubt. Harry flipped over the bit of parchment Ron had used, and grabbed a quill and ink.
Ron,
I'll make my own way to The Burrow. Going to borrow a friend's Floo. Same time though, yeah? Five o'clock, Sunday.
Harry
He quickly fastened it to the tiny owl's leg, and the overexcited creature zoomed off with energy that belied its tiny stature. As he watched it disappear, he remembered another overexcitable animal he was rather fond of, and sat down to write him a letter. Sirius was in another country right now, and Harry wasn't sure how long it had taken him to get back to Scotland last time. If he spelt out his intentions in the letter Sirius might disregard it, so he decided to be as succinct as possible.
Sirius,
No time to explain. I need you here by Sunday afternoon. This letter is a special sort of Portkey. Gather anything you want to take with you, make sure you're touching it and Hedwig, and then say Quidditch.
Love,
Harry
The creation of an International Portkey was a dubious thing, tricky and delicate. Luckily in his study of time magic, Harry had become very familiar with magics governing movement through space, as well. He could create an undetectable Portkey, but that wasn't good enough. By the time Hedwig reached Sirius, it might be too late, and Harry was reluctant to simply send Hedwig a week back in time. Hell, a week might not even be enough, for all he knew.
The process began by creating a normal Portkey, which Harry did with a tap of his wand. The parchment flashed blue, and Harry waited for the colour to dissipate before moving onto his modifications, which would transform it from a normal Portkey into a Temporal Portkey
Instead, Harry slowly inscribed a line of runes on the back of the parchment. When he'd finished, he cut his finger, dipped his quill in the wound, and began to write the final rune in his own blood. Sowilo. Power. The lightning bolt. It was his mark. This was both a signature and a way of binding the portkey to him.
Since Harry didn't know where Sirius was, the Portkey would be incredibly difficult to create. They needed magical anchors, like the place where they're used and the destination. By meddling with the magic of the location point, Harry had provided a new anchor, stabilising his creation.
But, of course, there was more to it than that. This was Chronomancy. Nothing was ever simple.
As soon as Harry had finished the rune, he lifted his finger from the paper. There was a crash behind him, and the sound of confused swearing. He grinned, but ignored Sirius to fasten the Portkey to Hedwig's leg, and send her out the window. Hedwig looked behind herself as she flew off, surveying the bizarre scene in Harry's bedroom. She let out an exasperated hoot, and disappeared from view.
Harry turned to face his Godfather, about to speak, only to burst out laughing.
Sirius was standing in a pair of swimming shorts, sand clinging to his feet, and holding the letter. He was looking very confused, and had neither any possessions or Hedwig with him.
"Harry?" he asked, more bewildered than Harry had ever seen him. Harry couldn't help but laugh.
"You didn't bring anything with you, and Hedwig's still gone, so I'm going to go out on a limb here and guess that you said Quidditch early. Did you forget that it was in your pocket and have a conversation with someone?" asked Harry.
Sirius looked abashed, which only served to amuse Harry more. Hedwig being gone would be a bit of a nuisance, but she'd find her way back to him sooner or later. She always did.
"I was reading your letter aloud," muttered Sirius.
Harry couldn't help it. He snickered.
"But Hedwig didn't come through the portkey. How was she here?" he asked, looking around Harry's bedroom. "Where are we?"
"It's a special kind of Portkey I designed. It didn't just move you through space, but through time. To the moment I finished the runes which would allow for temporal movement."
"What?" said Sirius, looking stunned.
Harry just smirked at him, enjoying Sirius' confusion far too much.
"Well, you and Dad liked to study off the curriculum too, so I figured I'd do the same."
"This is incredibly advanced magic, Harry!" exclaimed Sirius. "I've never even heard of something close to this. Where did you learn how to do this?"
"The future."
Sirius gawped at him for a moment, then closed his mouth.
"Huh. That explains the growth spurt."
Harry decided not to go into the full details of what was going on. He'd already given Aberforth about as much of an explanation as he was going to give to anyone, and that had only been because Aberforth wasn't going to be involved, so he couldn't get in the way of anything Harry had planned.
Bringing Sirius here was a whim, but Harry saw no harm in it. The old dog would have come to Scotland anyway because of his Horcrux dream, so it was just speeding things up a little. Besides, even though Sirius had died at the end of Harry's fifth year at Hogwarts, it was the first person he'd truly considered family that he'd lost, save for his parents. Even though he'd only known him a short time, Harry had felt an irrational closeness to Sirius, and mourned him more deeply than any friend he'd lost afterwards.
Taking the time-travel bomb remarkably well, Sirius flopped down on Harry's bed, scattering sand everywhere. Harry Vanished them, but groaned inwardly. There's always a grain that you miss, even with magic. One of the few truths of the universe is that sand gets everywhere.
"So what's the big emergency?" asked Sirius.
Harry looked his godfather up and down. He looked a lot healthier than the last time he'd seen him, having finally gotten regular meals and sun, and, most importantly, not being dead. Harry felt some unwanted emotion welling up, and pushed it aside before he began to recall the pain of losing Sirius the first time.
"The Quidditch World Cup," answered Harry.
"What? But that was last week. I read about it - the Death Eater attack, and everything."
"Weren't you listening?" said Harry dryly. "That Portkey moved you through time. Today is the Twenty Third of August."
"Oh," said Sirius. "So, what, we're going to stop the Death Eater attack?"
"No!" said Harry, vehemently.
Sirius raised an eyebrow, but Harry could tell he was more than a little shocked at the outburst. Harry took a deep breath and sat down beside him.
"Nobody gets hurt in the attack. Some Muggles were terrified, and the Dark Mark was in the sky, but beyond a few burnt tents there was no lasting damage. We have to let events unfold as they did before. They're leading up to something bigger."
"Why not stop them now, at the beginning?" asked Sirius.
"Voldemort," said Harry flatly.
Sirius said nothing in exchange, understandably. He bit the inside of his cheek, and stared at Harry, wonderingly.
"He has a plan in motion to resurrect himself within the year. If we move too soon, he'll move onto a different plan. But if we let things go on for just a little while, he'll think it's all going smoothly, and we can interrupt him at his key moment. Foresight is our only advantage. We have a lot of leeway. He's weak, for now. I can't tell you the details. Trust me?" asked Harry.
Sirius sighed, and ran a hand through his hair.
"Trust is a fickle thing, Harry. We lost your parents because we trusted the wrong man. Because we couldn't trust a good man, and because I - because I was a coward."
Harry saw the expression of self-loathing on Sirius' face beginning to form, and did the only thing a friend should. he slapped the mopey bastard.
"And how, exactly," Harry demanded, "Are you a coward?"
"I was afraid I wouldn't be able to withstand Voldemort's torture. I was afraid that he'd get the secret out of me no matter how hard I tried to resist. That he'd pull it from me with the Imperius Curse or Veritaserum or thumbscrews!" cried Sirius, his voice rising into a shout.
"So instead you let everyone think that you were the Secret Keeper, guaranteeing that you'd suffer in exactly that way. You offered yourself as a potential sacrifice, a diversion, to give them a better chance while Pettigrew held the secret. That's not cowardice."
"I was afraid," bit out Sirius.
"Of your own weakness. So you took on the dangerous part willingly, while removing your ability to fail. That wasn't cowardice. It was smart. Pettigrew was the coward who ran straight to Voldemort. Out. Of. Fear. Blame him, not yourself," growled Harry.
"Oh, believe me, I blame Peter," said Sirius in ominous tones. But the guilt had left his face, and even the momentary flash of anger was soon gone.
"Alright. I'll trust you. We're going to let the Death Eaters attack the World Cup and do - nothing? Spy on them during the attack? Is that why you summoned me here?" asked Sirius.
"Nope," said Harry cheerfully. The attack isn't important. We're going to watch the match. Ron's dad got tickets to the Top Box, and I don't go anywhere without my loyal dog these days. He looks out for me in these dark times, where murderers like Sirius Black are on the loose."
Sirius barked a laugh, and transformed into Padfoot. His coat was a rich, glossy black. Much better than the mangy hound that Harry had seen in his third year. He bounced around the room boisterously, barking excitedly, before changing back.
"Are pets even allowed in the Top Box?" he asked.
"Probably not. But the Minister of Magic will be there, and wouldn't you just love the opportunity to run around under his nose?" asked Harry. Sirius gave a fierce grin. "And I know how to play Fudge. We'll get you into the World Cup with me, and maybe even make your life a little easier."
"Are you going to pinky swear that your pet dog is Sirius Black and he's innocent?" asked Sirius, smiling.
"Well…" Harry trailed off. Sirius swatted at his head.
"I'm just going to set things in motion. Brown-nose a bit and suck up to the Minister. Maybe ask him some advice. Flatter him a bit."
"Ah," said Sirius, understanding. "Politics."
"Exactly," said Harry, hopping off the bed. He went to the wardrobe, and tossed a robe at Sirius.
"Here, we're about the same size, right?"
Sirius pulled on the robes, and shifted a little.
"Bit tight in the shoulders," he said.
Harry stabbed his wand wordlessly over his shoulder, and the garment adjusted to fit.
Sirius let out a suspiciously dog-like yelp as the fabric moved around him, only to frown, stretch back and forth a bit, and find that it fit him perfectly.
"Silent, no motion, and you didn't even look? Nice," he said. It was obviously a baited sentence, but Harry ignored the unspoken question.
"I'll buy you some boots next time I go into Hogsmeade," he said instead. "For now, it's probably best that you stick to being Padfoot unless we're alone.
"Right," said Sirius, shifting back.
Harry opened the bedroom door, and with a wicked gleam in his eye, whistled.
"Here boy! C'mon Padfoot!"
Sirius growled, and then tackled Harry, covering his face with huge slobbering licks. Harry laughed, gagged, and wiped at his face with the sleeve of his robes all in one motion, before booting his godfather off his face.
"I never answered your earlier question, by the way," said Harry. "We're in The Hog's Head. I'm working for Aberforth in exchange for lodging. Couldn't stomach the sight of the Dursleys any longer."
Harry made his way downstairs into the main room, Sirius bounding happily behind him. Aberforth was already behind the bar, polishing glasses for the night ahead. The barman scowled at the sight of them. Harry wasn't sure which.
"No pets, Potter," he snapped.
"You have a goat," argued Harry. Aberforth snorted.
"Betsie's not a goat. She's a house elf."
Harry stared.
"No!" Aberforth roared. "I am not fucking a goat or a house elf. She was too...loud. And annoying. And ruined the decor of my pub by cleaning it too much."
Harry stared.
"Sure, the papers went after me, claiming I was casting illegal charms on a goat, and all sorts of rumours went around. Helped by arseholes like you who go around claiming that their employer fucks goats in front of all his patrons," said Aberforth, glaring fiercely at Harry.
"We both like it better this way. As a goat she doesn't think of mess the same way, so she doesn't go around cleaning everything."
Harry managed to gather some of his wits, though he still stared goggle-eyed at Aberforth.
"You turned a house elf into a goat to punish her for cleaning?" he asked, incredulous. Behind him, Sirius made a noise that sounded suspiciously like a dog laughing.
"Not to punish her, just to stop her. She doesn't mind the mess when she's in this shape. Doesn't steal patron's glasses when they're still drinking to clean half a shot of firewhiskey. Doesn't scrub every surface raw. Besides, she likes being a goat."
Harry continued to stare.
"It's not a bad life," argued Aberforth defensively. "I feed her well, she's not bound by her magic to obey me like a slave or punish herself if she makes a mistake. And house elves have powerful magic. She could change back if she wanted, but we're both happier this way."
Harry tried not to stare, failed, and stared at Aberforth.
"I'm keeping the dog," he said flatly.
"Fine, fine," said Aberforth, eager to move away from the subject of Betsie. "There's a bone left over from the roast for your mutt, and we've plenty of milk if he'd rather that than water."
Sirius followed at Harry's heels as he walked towards the front door, but a horrifying thought came into his head before his hand touched the latch. He slowly turned to face Aberforth again, feeling dread in the pit of his stomach.
"You mean I've been drinking house elf milk for three days?" asked Harry in horror, all the pieces slotting into place.
Aberforth just shrugged.
