Harry rolled onto his side, savoring the feeling of waking comfortably into a Christmas morning rather than being rudely yanked out of his dreams by Aunt Petunia's shrill commands to 'get a move on' or Dudley's thunderous footsteps on the stairs overhead. Downstairs, he was sure, the Hogwarts house-elves were scampering about the kitchens, shelling vats of peas, peeling mountains of potatoes, basting turkey after turkey. The only thing that could make this day better—
He opened one eye and peered towards the bottom of his bed.
Sure enough.
"Happy Christmas," said Ron hazily as Harry clambered out of bed and located his dressing gown.
"You too," said Harry, returning to bed and sliding on his glasses. "Look at this! I've got presents!"
Ron laughed. "What'd you think you'd be getting? Carrots?"
"No." Harry threw his pillow at Ron, who caught it and threw it back. "I just haven't ever had this many before. Wonder who they're all from."
"Probably they say on them." Ron plucked his own first present from the top of his pile. "What're you waiting for?"
"Nothing." Harry took one more moment to savor the reality of the changes that had come into his life in the last six months, then picked up the top parcel, which was very small and light.
Your latest report received, read the note within. Glad to hear you are adjusting well. Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia. A pound coin had been hastily taped to the note, as though it were an afterthought.
"Good to know that's working," said Harry, setting the note aside in favor of a large, squashy package. "Wonder what this is?"
"Er." The tips of Ron's ears turned pink. "That might be from my mum. I told her a little bit about you, how you lived with Muggles who didn't like you much and the only present you ever got was that hat your one teacher made you—oh, no," he groaned as Harry tore the paper off. "I was afraid of that. She's made you a Weasley jumper to match. You don't have to wear it, really you don't…"
"Are you kidding?" Harry held up the thick, hand-knitted jumper in orange, unable to stop himself from grinning. "I love stuff like this. Makes me think of—" He swiftly cut off that sentence in favor of opening the waxy-feeling box the jumper had been wrapped around. "And fudge, too? It smells great."
"Yeah, she's been tinkering with that recipe for years." Ron unwrapped his own jumper with a sigh. "Why's mine always maroon?"
"Maybe we can ask Hermione if there's a way to change it," Harry suggested, breaking off a corner of the fudge, which tasted as good as it smelled, then tearing into his next present. "Speaking of Hermione—hey, perfect!" He ran a finger happily along the raised letters which spelled out the title of his gift from his Ravenclaw friend. "This is what we're reading next in book club. I can't wait."
"Howl's Moving Castle?" Ron frowned. "Did an Animation Charm go wrong or something?"
"No, it moves on purpose. At least I think so. I'll have to read it to find out." Harry set the book down beside the jumper and the box of fudge. "I've heard really good things about this author, though. How she can make everything look like it's going a certain way, and then you find out one detail and suddenly everything turns on its head, and you see you've had it backwards the entire time."
"Take your word for it," said Ron, opening the jumbo box of Bertie Bott's Hermione had given him. "What's that big blocky one?"
"It says it's from Hagrid." Harry tore off the thick brown paper to discover a broad object carved out of wood. A number of small circular holes dotted the front of one side, and upright dividers lined the other, rather like the file holders he could remember from his Muggle school—
"He made it to hold all the bits of my stories," he said, starting to grin once more as the item's use became clear. "The different scrolls and sheets I'm working from, so I always know where to find them."
"Sounds like a good thing for you to have. I know I've seen you juggling around half a dozen little bits of parchment while you're trying to put that thing together." Ron frowned over his handful of beans. "Should I try the brown one? Could be chocolate, but could also be…"
"Up to you." Harry undid the wrappings on the next parcel down, then held it up so that Ron could see it. "Thanks," he said, gesturing to the glossy cover of Quidditch, Quodpot, Crosseball: Broomstick Sports on Two Continents.
"Don't mention it." Ron's ears flushed again. "Mal's the one who found it, and asked if I wanted to go halves."
"Still a good present." Harry returned to his pile, now much diminished. A lumpy package addressed to him in Tonks's handwriting contained a similar selection of sweets to what she'd sent for his birthday, with a burgundy-red DictaQuill tucked into the top of the bag. Another rectangular parcel, without any name attached, proved to hold a book called Tips for the Aspiring Writer. Harry could vaguely recall seeing this title in his life as Henry, poking out of Ryan Blake's crowded bookshelf in the writing room at Tudor Lane, and suspected Hermione or Draco might have bought it for him in the spirit of a similar recollection.
"Blah!" Ron jumped out of bed and ran to the window, spitting the brown bean out into the snowy morning. "Should've known," he said, scooping up a handful of snow from the windowsill to rinse his mouth out with. "Mud. What's that little tiny one there?"
"I'm not sure." Peeling back the paper on the 'little tiny one' with care, Harry frowned at the item thus revealed. Strung on a leather thong was a disc of hard-baked red clay, small enough to fit inside his palm, carefully inscribed with figures and illustrations. On one side he could see a broomstick, a wand, and the Gryffindor crest, while the other side was ornamented with a book, a pot with steam rising from it, and a quill lying atop a scroll. All around the edge of both sides ran a neat pattern of scales, ending in a pointed tail at one end and a mild-eyed head at the other.
"Sort of a talisman thing," he said offhandly, sliding the thong over his head and tucking the disc under his pajama shirt. "Not sure who it's from."
Behind his back, he crossed his fingers, more glad than ever that he'd saved the letter from Ginny where she'd mentioned in passing her admiration for the Holyhead Harpies. A present this thoughtful deserved an equally thoughtful return.
"Could be Neville. His gran might've helped him do his shopping." Ron returned to his bed. "So that just leaves one more."
"Yeah." Harry picked up his final gift, which was flat and curiously flexible. After bending it experimentally once or twice, he found an edge of the wrapping paper and pulled.
Something silvery gray slithered out of the wrappings and pooled at the base of his bed in shining folds. Ron gaped at it, dropping the box of Ice Mice he'd received from Draco (tiny, indignant squeaks emerged from it as it hit the floor).
"It can't be," he said in a hushed tone. "If that's what I think it is—but they're really valuable, and really rare, who'd be sending you something like that—"
"What is it?" Harry picked up the shimmering cloth. It felt strangely fluid between his fingers, like someone had woven water, or coaxed fog into a tangible form.
"I think it might be an Invisibility Cloak!" Ron stared at it in awe. "Try it out, go on!"
Harry swung the cloak over his shoulders and pulled it closed in front, and Ron slapped his hand down on the bed. "It is! Look at yourself!"
"How?" Harry inquired, gazing down at, apparently, nothing. Reaching behind his head, he located a deep hood, and pulled it up and over his face, grinning to himself as Ron's expression told him everything he needed to know.
"That's wild!" Ron finally managed to articulate, as Harry slid off the bed and ran to the mirror on the far wall, lowering the hood so that he could see his head floating unsupported in midair. "Who could've—hey, look, there's a note! Maybe it says!"
Letting go his hold on the silvery fabric, Harry bent down and picked up the slip of parchment which had fallen from its folds. Neat, loopy handwriting spelled out a simple message:
Your father left this in my possession before he died. It is time it was returned to you. Use it well. A very happy Christmas to you.
There was no signature.
Late that night, Harry slipped out the portrait hole, covered from head to toe with the Invisibility Cloak. His heart was pounding, and he'd never been more grateful that the Fat Lady was off somewhere celebrating her own Christmas with her portrait friends. Getting caught during his first-ever excursion with the Cloak definitely wouldn't count as using it well.
He'd considered waking Ron to try the Cloak out together, but tonight felt somehow special, an adventure to be started alone. Not even in his dream life did he own anything that had belonged to his birth parents. Following again the path he'd walked the day before, this time with a different detour to miss out two of the castle's ghosts having an involved gossip session, he stopped outside the same door, nerving himself up with a few deep breaths.
If the office was locked, he decided, that would mean he wasn't supposed to do this tonight, and he would switch over to scouting the dungeon corridors to see if he couldn't locate the entrance to the Slytherin common room. But if it wasn't—
He laid his hand on the doorknob.
It turned in his grasp.
Grinning to himself, Harry pushed open the door and stepped into Professor Lupin's office, looking around with interest. An old-fashioned gramophone in one corner caught his attention, but he knew better than to poke at anything so delicate. Many of the books on the shelf against the far wall had familiar titles, and he had a strong suspicion what type of scent would arise if he lifted the lid of the apothecary jar tucked onto one of the shelves.
And up on the very top shelf, is that—
A rasping snore made him whirl around, his heart jumping into his throat.
Slumped in the desk chair, which had been pushed into the far corner of the office, slept Professor Severus Snape.
What is he doing here? Harry crept closer, one cautious step at a time. Did he suspect I'd come back? Is he hoping to catch me sneaking around late at night so he can give me some really horrible detention? Or—
The "or" slipped away, unfinished, as Harry looked more closely at the Potions Master. Snape's breathing was deep and even, except for an occasional snore like the one that had alerted Harry to his presence. His eyes were darting back and forth beneath their closed lids, and he seemed, bizarre as it was, to be smiling.
I guess he might have dreams that make him happy, just like I do.
But speculating about Snape's dreams wouldn't get him any further along his planned course for tonight, Harry concluded regretfully. He'd come here looking for information about Professor Lupin's whereabouts, and it didn't seem to be within his grasp.
Turning in place, he started for the door.
The hem of the Cloak brushed across the corner of Lupin's desk, catching on a small object which had been sitting there and tugging it forward with the force of Harry's next step.
Harry saw the movement out of the corner of his eye, and whipped back around to try to catch it, but he knew he was already too late.
The blue-glazed mug hit the stone floor of the office and shattered.
Snape shot upright in the chair, his eyes opening wide.
Harry bolted out the door, ignoring Snape's hoarse command to "stop right there, whoever you are!"
Have to run. Have to run. Can't let him catch me…
He chose turnings and staircases almost at random, until finally he skidded to a halt in a narrow passageway near a suit of armor, bracing himself on the wall. A beam of light was bobbing up the stairs behind him, and he could hear Filch's greasy voice answering Snape's clipped questions, making his heart sink even further than before. They were close enough to hear him if he tried to run again, he was trapped, there was nowhere left to go—
No, wait. An oddity across the passage caught his eye. That door's not quite shut. If I can…just…
Sucking in his breath, he squirmed around the door, trying not to move it from its place or make a sound. A wave of shuddering relief flowed over him as Filch and Snape passed by, Snape sweeping his wand's light back and forth across the hall, Filch carrying a lantern on a stick, neither of them turning to look in his direction. Mrs. Norris, trotting at Filch's heels, paused to sniff the air dubiously, but then twitched her head away and followed her master around the far corner, and Harry let out his breath slowly, turning around to see where he'd ended up.
Stacked chairs and desks lined the walls of his refuge, with the bulk of a teacher's desk to one side under a dust cover, an overturned wastepaper basket beside it. Set up near the center of the room, though, was something that Harry doubted belonged in a classroom, unless it were an object of study in one of Professor Flitwick's advanced classes. A mirror nearly as tall as the ceiling, set in an elaborate frame of gold, reflected the darkened walls back to Harry where he stood at an angle to it.
It's got words carved all around it. Harry moved closer, trying to make out the complicated lettering. That's definitely not English. But it's not Latin, either, or any other language I can think of…
"Erised stra ehru oyt ube cafru oyt on wohsi," he sounded out slowly, speaking in his lowest tones. "Is it a code, maybe? Or a spell?"
As he stepped in front of the pane of silvered glass, he glanced into it automatically, ready for the thrill of seeing nothing where his reflection ought to be.
He barely kept himself from yelling in shock.
The eyes looking back at him from the mirror were his own. The rest of the face belonged to Henry Blake.
And he's not alone, either…
On one side of Henry stood Thea and Ryan Blake, Ryan saying something with a grin to which Thea shook her head ruefully, her brown eyes dancing with laughter. Pearl bounced on her toes between her parents, smiling and waving as Harry looked in her direction. On Henry's other side, Mal Reynolds was showing a diagram in a book to his cousin Dora, while John Reynolds demonstrated a wand movement in slow motion for Jean to mimic, Gigi standing a few steps back with a fond smile on her face.
Henry swirled two fingers in a tight circle, bringing Harry's attention back to him. Raising his right hand to his face, he sketched a complicated symbol on his forehead with his thumb, and the color of his skin began to change.
Of course, I knew that, he's under a Glamour Charm or something like it—he'd have to be, otherwise how could he be me, but what does it—
Harry sucked in his breath as the uncharming effect spread outwards from the mirror's central figure, transforming everyone in its path. Professor Lupin and Hermione, Draco and Tonks, now stood on one side of his own familiar reflection, and on the other—
An ache of longing rose in Harry's chest as he looked into his godfather's face. Sirius Black, looking older and more careworn than his picture from the Potters' wedding but decidedly more sane than his photograph in the Daily Prophet from the summer, winked once at Harry, then ran his hand across the tight braids of the little girl who stood beside him, her silver-gray eyes sparkling bright. Meghan, Harry recalled from Professor McGonagall's letter over the summer, her name in the real world was Meghan, and her mother was—
"Aletha!"
Harry jerked back to full awareness, unsure if he'd truly heard the name or just imagined it, but suddenly and acutely conscious of his position. He was out of bed at (he checked his wristwatch and grimaced) one o'clock in the morning, in a room where he was quite sure he had no business being, investigating something which was obviously a powerful magical artifact—
But it let me see them. It let me see all of them, together, with me.
The way I've always wished my life really could be.
Turning back to the mirror, he took one long last look at the people within. They waved, saluted, blew kisses or stuck out their tongues as their natures dictated, though he frowned when his eyes reached the farthest side of the glass. His Aunt Gigi, or her real-world counterpart, had retreated into the shadows, as though even in a magical mirror she couldn't let herself be seen.
"I'll come back," he promised in a whisper, and made sure the Cloak was fastened around him before he slipped out into the hall, headed for Gryffindor Tower and bed.
"A mirror that shows your family?" Ron repeated. "You mean, like your dad and mum?"
"Not exactly. It's complicated." Harry glanced up and down the Gryffindor table, making sure they were safely out of earshot of anyone else. "Ron, do you ever have dreams? Ones that are sort of like your real life, but different?"
"Sometimes." Ron gave Harry a sidelong look. "How come?"
Harry took a breath, preparing for the first time to tell his secret to someone who didn't already know—
"Potter," said Professor McGonagall, arriving behind the two of them. "Whenever you're finished with your breakfast, I'd like to see you in my office, please. Alone."
"Yes, Professor." Harry pushed away his untouched porridge and got to his feet. "I can come right now."
"Good." Professor McGonagall's voice sounded slightly hoarse, but she was smiling. "He's in no trouble, Weasley," she added to Ron. "But I suggest you find something else to do with your morning. This may take some time."
Ron nodded, watching them out of the Great Hall with his brow furrowed, as though he were thinking hard.
Outside the closed door of her office, Professor McGonagall turned to face Harry. "I said something to you on the day we first met, Harry," she informed him, her eyes shining behind the lenses of her spectacles. "After I'd given you your birthday gift, and you had asked me a question about it."
Harry nodded, the memory coming to the surface of his mind without conscious effort. I was already over the moon from finding out Draco and Tonks really existed, and from seeing my mum and dad for the first time. And then I looked down at my mum's picture again, and I saw who was standing next to her…
"I can confidently say that I have never been happier to be wrong." Professor McGonagall gestured to the door of her office. "Go right in."
She's happy to be wrong? Harry stared at his Head of House as she walked away from him. But what she told me that day was that I probably wouldn't ever—
From within the office, a soft melody began to play, rising and falling like an owl's wings on a snowy wind.
Harry was through the door before he could remember moving.
Ron tucked in the end of his scarf before pushing open the great oak doors to step outside into the cold. He had no idea if Hagrid would be awake yet, given the amount of wine he'd seen the gamekeeper putting away at the Christmas feast the day before, but it wouldn't do any harm to run down there and knock.
Weird that Harry was asking about dreams. He used his booted foot to clear off the worst of the accumulated snow from the outdoor steps, then plunged into the knee-deep drifts to start towards Hagrid's hut. I remember the day we met, when I was thinking about my dreams. About the friends I had in them, the friends who'd be going to Hogwarts with me. But when I actually got on board the train, I met a load of different people and made friends with them instead. They were like my dream-friends, but not quite the same, so I figured the dreams were just that, dreams…
"And to be honest? That's probably what they are." Ron bent down and picked up a handful of snow, absently molding it into a sphere. "Unless I'm going to sprout Seer powers someday, and send a load of visions back into the past to tell myself all about the friends I'm going to have." He laughed under his breath, enjoying the idea. "Only I don't want to freak myself out too much, so I'll change around stuff like their names and the way they look. Nice of me, isn't it?" Tossing and catching the snowball once, he looked around for a target. "Maybe I'll tell that one to Harry and he can write it into a proper story for us. Whenever he's done messing about with our first year, that is."
Sighting a tree which grew by itself at the edge of the Forest, he took aim and threw the snowball. It struck with a piff, making him smile as snow showered in every direction. Wonder what McGonagall wanted. She said Harry wasn't in trouble, but that doesn't mean it's anything good. I hope his relations haven't found out where he really is, that could get sticky if they decide they don't want him learning magic and try to haul him home—
A snowball hit him in the back of the head, startling a yip out of him. He whirled, dodging just in time as another whizzed past his shoulder. A gleam of red hair behind a snowdrift nearby, and another inside the verge of the Forest, made him grit his teeth. The novelty of stealing Percy's prefect badge had obviously worn off for Fred and George.
I wonder if I can get to Hagrid's before they catch up with me. They'll want to wash my face in the snow at the very least, and that's if they don't decide to dump a load of it down my back—
"Hey!" shrieked a voice which didn't belong to any of his brothers, and another snowball shot past him in the opposite direction. "Why don't you pick on somebody your own size?"
Ron spun around in shock, staring open-mouthed at the person who was defending him. Smaller even than a first year, one black braid escaping the rim of her coat's hood, silver-gray eyes sparking challenge from a dark and delicate face—
"Look out!" the girl shrilled, and shoved him sideways. He lost his balance and fell, catching himself at the last second on his hands, as a pair of snowballs flew by overhead. "What's wrong with you? Help me fight back!"
"Nothing's wrong with me." Ron caught his breath and began packing a snowball of his own. "I was just surprised."
"Well, I am pretty surprising." The girl smirked, then fired off her latest missile, scoring a yelp from one of the twins. "Ha! Right in the nose. I'm Meghan, by the way. How about you?"
"Ron Weasley." Ron flung his own snowball towards the Forest, flushing out the twin Meghan hadn't hit. "I'd shake hands, but…"
"This is more fun anyway." Meghan scooped up another handful of snow. "Do you go to school here?"
"I'm a first year. Gryffindor. You?"
"Not yet, but I will." Meghan glanced at Hogwarts with a vaguely proprietary air. "And I'll find out all the castle's secrets before I finish. Just like my dad, and his friends…"
Harry's ability to think in complete sentences, or form coherent memories, was temporarily on hold. Only sensory images were getting through, and not many of those. Strong arms were wrapped around him, the scent of clean clothing and something spicy and resinous hung on the air, and a soft voice kept murmuring his name.
"Harry… Harry Potter…"
He laughed unsteadily as the visions he'd seen the night before recurred to him. Did the mirror do this? Reach out into the world somehow and bring her here? That doesn't sound right, but how else—
"I'm so glad to finally meet you," said the woman who'd been hugging him, releasing her hold so that he could sit down beside her. "Though I suppose technically that's 'meet you again', even if you wouldn't remember the first time."
"Because I was a baby then." Harry swallowed against equal parts joy and sadness. "You knew my parents."
"I did." The woman nodded. "I first met your mother through Professor Slughorn, who used to teach Potions here at Hogwarts, but we found out we had a number of interests in common. Music was one, though Lily preferred listening to it."
"And you play." Harry laid a hand on the weathered ivory keys beside him. "Did Professor McGonagall teach you?"
"I took lessons from her while I was a student here, yes." The woman sat back on the piano bench which had replaced Professor McGonagall's desk chair. "You must have so many questions for me."
"Just one to start with." Harry looked up into warm brown eyes. "What should I call you?"
Since I don't think 'Mom' would be a very good idea!
"Well, my name is Aletha Freeman." The woman cupped his face briefly with one dark hand. "But most people call me Letha, and you did the same when you were little. As close as you could get, that is." She chuckled. "'Leeta' is how it came out, most of the time."
"Letha." Harry tried it out, and found it not entirely strange to him. "And you have a daughter?"
"Yes, Meghan. She's nine. You'll meet her soon, I'm sure." Letha sighed. "I feel like I owe you an explanation, Harry. For why I never tried to claim your custody instead of your aunt and uncle, or even so much as came to visit you."
"You don't owe me anything." Harry shook his head hard. "You're here now. That's what matters. But someone else isn't." Once more he felt a surge of anger, almost of hatred. "He won't ever be."
"Well, now." Letha's voice held a curious overtone, and Harry looked up at her in surprise. "I'd imagine you're talking about your godfather? Sirius Black?"
"Yes." Harry's mind conjured up once more the scene he'd witnessed in the mirror, and matched it against the life he'd always known in his dreams. "He was…I mean, you were…"
"We were together," Letha finished simply. "He's Meghan's father. Which gives her a few intriguing rights, in the magical world. Such as the right to ask the Gringotts goblins about recent activity in the Black family vault, and actually get an answer." She picked up a sheet of parchment from the top of the piano. "Take a look."
Harry accepted the parchment and scanned along the dark, jagged lines of writing. Transaction record for vault 711, Gringotts Bank, London. Most recent transaction: withdrawal; amount: fifty Galleons; method: Owl Order form; date—
"It's not absolute proof, mind you." Letha laid a hand over Harry's, cupping it gently to hold it still where it was beginning to shake. "There are other people who might have accessed that vault. But it does seem a bit strange, doesn't it?"
Silently Harry nodded, still staring at the parchment, and the incredible, impossible information written on it.
Date: 19 August, 1991
(A/N: Howl's Moving Castle was written by the great Diana Wynne Jones, who does indeed have a marvelous capacity to build up a world in a particular image and then twist it back on itself with one revelation. I'm very fond of this talent in writers, which is probably why PoA is my favorite of the canon HP books. And, of course, I disclaim the note that was tucked into Harry's Invisibility Cloak.
A word on aspects of this story, as some readers seem to be upset by choices I or the characters have made. The wizarding world draws from an older tradition than most of us are used to today, one which holds that "making a fuss" is an unforgivable social sin and that children need to face challenges by themselves so they'll grow up strong. I've chosen to depict this mindset even though I don't fully agree with it, and hope you can continue to enjoy the story with that in mind.
So some of the pieces are starting to fall together, no? See you all soon!)
