Harry Potter and the Slow Bloom Chapter 10:

Amina

Standard disclaimer applies. Ego Harrius Fulvinarus non proprieto. Kudos to those who spot the Anime reference.

University and life in general have become very busy, but I now have a clear plan for the rest of this story. Look forwards to more frequent updates as well as a few drabbles along the way!

The six of them were gathered together in the high room, the silver instruments ticking and whirring away, tracing endless waltzes in the air.

"We haven't been on good terms, lately, have we, Harry?"

Albus Dumbledore faced the near-circle of chairs and swept his gaze from one side to the other. Harry, with Hermione perched on the armrest of his chair. Ron and Luna next to him, their arrangement much the same. In the chair off to one side and recessed slightly from the group, Professor McGonagall. He himself had opted for one of his own squashy conjured creations in order to subtly soften the line between student and staff, hoping for to create a more open, less confrontational meeting. He couldn't yet tell if it was working.

"No, Professor. We haven't." Harry was tired after a night's sleep broken with dreams where he and Sirius had sat talking quietly in the Veil Room, perched on the rim of the dais.

"It's not so bad, you know. Being, well, dead." He had grinned at this, his schoolboy smile lighting up his face.

"You're a figment of my imagination, Sirius. You're gone." Even in the silence of the chamber, Harry's voice had sounded hollow. Try as he might he couldn't bring himself to look his dead Godfather in the face.

"I'm closer than you think, Harry."

"Shut up. You're dead. Even Lupin thinks you're gone."

"Blaming yourself, Harry? I wouldn't, if I were you."

"I got you killed."

"I shouldn't have taunted my dear cousin. Stupid thing to do, really. Forget about it. You're not to blame."

"It's my fault, if I hadn't had those damned visions then…" He was starting to feel angry. How could Sirius feel so blasé about it?

"Really, Harry." He chuckled, a live sound in a dead place. "Whose decision was it to come after you?"

"I shouldn't have…"

"I came because I wanted to, knowing that I might not leave this place alive." His tone softened and turned serious. "Think about it, Harry." He stood to leave.

"Wait! Where are you going!" Sirius turned looked at him fondly, grey eyes twinkling ever so slightly in the musty, still room.

"I'm going…somewhere else. Don't worry, Harry. I'll come back soon. We can talk some more then." He started walking towards the centre of the dais. Before Harry could react he had swept the veil to one side and stepped through the archway as easily and as calmly as someone walking though a door.

He stood there for a moment, uneasy. There was no sense of loss, just a faint feeling of annoyance, as if someone had put the telephone down on him. Putting it all down to a hyperactive imagination – there was no way, surely, that Voldemort was planning a second attack on the Ministry, and therefore on his mind – he walked out of the door into a passageway. It was dark and deserted. Well, at least that made sense, he mused. It was night-time after all.

He paused, his mind momentarily a jumble. He was controlling his own dreams. He'd just, of his own free will, walked out of a door. There was no disembodiment, no third-person perspective. Something was not right.

Without realising it he found himself in front of the blank door that had melted Sirius's knife. Well, he had control, and things were obeying his rules now. Why not…?

He reached to tug open the door, and then shrugged. He stepped through the wood. He might as well do things his way from now on. After all, he reasoned, there was no door. This was really only his mi…

Before him stood a pedestal; brilliantly white and classical in design, it topped out at chest height. The room around it was of the same white, perfect and unbroken, a full fifty feet from centre to edge. The walls appeared to be curved and utterly smooth, and then, as his eyes adapted to the perspective, he realised that he was standing inside what could only be a mathematically perfect sphere that seemed to glow from within. He looked down, and saw that his feet were not touching the floor. He was suspended in mid-air.

Curious, he took a step forward, and from somewhere beneath his foot came a clear, perfectly modulated note. He looked down, seeing a thickness in the perspective that he had not previously noticed. He took another step, and from beneath him came another note of a slightly different modulation. He realised that he was standing on a sheet of unblemished crystal, and it sang as he walked towards the pedestal.

Topping it was the most flawless gem he had ever seen. It was the size of his clenched fist and the colour of a seashell. It was translucent and seemed to pulse faintly in shades of soft pink, never quite the same from one moment to the next. There was something incredibly familiar about it.

I know what this is, he thought. This is the door that's always locked. This is the Heart.

He was at the foot of the pedestal now, the gem level with his chest. It seemed to stop pulsing and instead shone with a steady glow.

Having well and truly learnt over the years that sticking one's hands near or into unknown magical substances was a most unwise thing to do, he circled it once. Then he walked around it again, slightly closer. He noticed that the closer he got to the gem the stronger the glow became. The further away he went from it, however, the weaker the luminescence.

It's reacting to me, he thought. It's reacting to… what? There's no quality called "heart", is there? Unless it's what Dumbledore meant by spirit… but that's another problem of definition right there. What's it really reacting to? Magical power? Tenacity?

He sat on the transparent floor and tried very hard to think. He'd thrown off Riddle's attempt at possession thanks to "heart". The same quality had led him to challenge Quirrel, the Basilisk, numerous Dementors and Voldemort himself, in his restored form. Not to mention the Department of Mysteries. They were all linked by some motivating force or combination of forces that were gathered under the moniker of "heart".

Ah. Bravery? No. Bravery was doing what you thought had to be done in spite of anything that might conspire to stop you doing it. Bravery could easily masquerade as foolishness: the Veil Chamber had taught him that.

Altruism? Selflessness? That "saving-people-thing" that Hermione had confronted him with? Maybe. Or maybe it's a combination of all of them and there's no one word for what "heart" really is.

I'll go with that, he thought. This glow is making my scar ache.

He looked over his shoulder and found that the way in had vanished. He somehow knew that it would be impossible to come out the way he had come in. That left him trapped. He walked over to the gem again and stared into its depths. It was blood-red now thanks to his proximity, the facets gleaming as those of the Philosopher's stone once had in another chamber long ago and far away. His scar was throbbing now, and still no answers came to him. What was it? Goodness? Purity? He was certain that he had neither in any great amount, at least not more than the next person. That train of thought led him back to Hermione, and then something unexpected happened.

His scar stopped hurting. The pain vanished. The stone lit up and flared a deep rose, turning the chamber a bold, translucent pink. An air of contentment suffused the chamber and he calmed down. That's weird… it reacts to thoughts. I wonder if…?

He decided to test the theory.

Taking a deep breath and steeling himself mentally, he thought of the Killing Curse, of Voldemort and of the torture of the Muggles two years ago at the World Cup. He concentrated on the Unforgivable flung at Bellatrix Lestrange not so far from here and not so long ago. He had wanted to cause excruciating pain, to render her limb from limb…

And now the crystal flared scarlet, a deep, bloody glare that spoke of hell and pain and fire. There was a whispering throughout the chamber and a strange, somehow intangible wind blew through him. It had become a bad place. He tried to hold onto his thoughts but they slid away as his forehead erupted in pain and he latched back onto the memory of his friends. The redness died and became pink once more, and the pain in his forehead died away.

He felt drained and tired. Bad thoughts did bad things and good thoughts did good things in this strange place. Whatever it was. He wanted to go home. He wanted to wake up.

On some subconscious level he knew that there was only one possible way back and that it was right in front of him. Fixing his thoughts firmly on Hermione and Hogwarts he reached out and grasped the jewel. At once the translucent, dancing pink light erupted into white and he was blinded. There was a sensation of light-headedness, and he woke up with a start in his towertop bed, breathing hard and damp from exertion..

A warm, soft weight that was partially draped over him shifted slightly and gave a small sigh as his pulse settled and his breathing eased. His last thoughts before he fell into a mercifully dreamless sleep were to find Dumbledore and to tell him everything…

Little did he know that up in the Owlery, Ron was having the same thoughts.

"…and that's when I woke up, Professor."

He'd heard the same line twice within half an hour and it made him uneasy. He had one concrete lead, one secret that he had thought dead and buried and many grave worries. He considered his actions before looking at each member of the group in the face. When he spoke, it was to the room at large.

"Harry, Miss Granger, I would like to speak with you in private. You will undoubtedly compare notes afterwards, but for now… Mister Weasley, Miss Lovegood, if I could ask you to please wait outside for the moment? Minerva, would you accompany them? Thank you."

As the door swung to behind the ageing witch, Albus faced the young couple in front of him, hands steepled under his chin. Hermione was still perched on Harry's armrest with one hand on his shoulder and her legs swinging freely over the side of the chair. Harry himself, although visibly tired, was looking right at him with a slight air of shuttered defiance, his hands in his lap but his head slightly inclined towards her. Dumbledore remembered that James and Lilly had once sat in that same way in this very office, and, then as now, Albus knew that he was facing two very determined people. He only hoped that history was not about to repeat itself. Steeling himself and forcing a much calmer tone than that which he felt like using, he began to speak.

"Do you know what that place is called, Harry?" he asked.

Harry's eyes widened slightly before he responded. He hadn't been expecting the question.

"No. But I do know what it was. It was the room you were talking to me about when… at the end of last year. The one where you said the Ministry studies the Heart."

"Correct. That room is called the Chapel of the Heart, and as you saw for yourself, only those who are pure in thought can enter or even be in there without feeling pain. How you came to be there in your dream I do not know, but from now on I myself will be teaching you Occlumency. After my meeting with Voldemort in the Ministry, the nature of our relationship must have become obvious to him. Privet Drive's protection guards against it but there is still a possibility that he is subtly influencing your subconscious even under my renewed protection here– we must leave him no gaps. Inform me at once if any of what came to pass during the night repeats itself. A troubled mind, as you have seen, does not make for happy dreams."

"As to you, Miss Granger, I expect that you will wish to help him as much as you can. Indeed I ask you to do so, for I cannot be at Harry's side all the time. Your first lessons will start tomorrow at eight O'clock in the evening in here. The password is Sugar Quill."

He turned to where Fawkes was nestled upon his perch and whistled a low note. The bird vanished in a flash of fire and moments later Ron, Luna and McGonagall reappeared in the doorway. Fawkes, however, was nowhere to be seen.

They sat, their faces stony. There was an awkward moment as Ron and Harry exchanged glances and then Dumbledore spoke again.

"Mr Weasley. I do not wish to keep you any longer than is necessary, but you have my thanks. Our…mutual friends are now more fully informed than ever. Your father has also been contacted and is on his way here. As for your companion… Miss Lovegood, I thank you also."

He paused, inwardly unsure of how to continue. There were certain things to prepare, ones which would change the atmosphere within the walls. The timing, however, was uncertain…. Everything was still shrouded in mystery.

"Times have changed. We are at war. Certain…behaviours that have been taking place inside the castle will be ignored. The rules have been relaxed. We must prepare as best as we can. Learn all you can as fast as you can. I shall be announcing all of this tomorrow morning." He walked round the desk and stood at the centre of the group, tall and assured once more.

"Mr Weasley, Miss Lovegood: Look after yourselves. Report anything abnormal to myself or a member of staff. Harry, Miss Granger: Inform me at once of any further visions."

He sat behind the desk again, a clear sign that the meeting was at an end. McGonagall remained impassive as the rest of them filed out.

As the door closed she sat stiffly on a chair and faced him.

"Albus, they're afraid. They have no idea of what's coming. Nary a one."

"I know, Minerva. Call it an old man's foolishness, but I have been deceived. Not even we of the Wizengamot ever dreamed of anything like this. There are atrocities here that I would not have dared speak of. It is time for me to face my responsibilities. We must act before the sleeper does."

"What is he going to do?"

"I do not know, but I suspect. Even I cannot see the future, but there are deeply unsettling things happening here. I must consult the High Council at once. I leave the school in your hands. Take care of them, allow them their thoughts and feelings and help those who feel lost. I will be back in a few hours at least, at the worst within a week. Take care of them."

With that, he whistled again and Fawkes appeared in a bright burst of flame. Grasping the bird's tail, he vanished in the same way.

Minerva McGonagall stood alone in the deserted office.

"And who will take care of you, Albus?" she thought.