Three days later, they were fully recovered but for matching scars on their forearms that looked like the number eleven. "I have worse scars," said Harry. He looked critically down at his hand, where a blood quill had once carved 'I must not tell lies' there in his own handwriting. Now, with Dumbledore's transfiguration of him nearly total, the skin was unblemished. Dolores Umbridge's cruelty was hidden, as was his other, crueler scar.
Ginny pulled her robes up her forearm. "We're matching," she said. "We'll have to tell the others – when we get back – that we were doing something completely brave."
Harry chuckled. "We'll think of something," he agreed.
"Ron will be so jealous," she said, smugly.
The smile slipped off his face. Somewhere in the middle of the night, he'd woken up from a dream that he thought had featured Ron and Hermione, fully expecting to see them sitting beside his bed. It had taken lighting the lamp beside him and pulling back the curtain and finding only emptiness to convince him otherwise, sleepy and befuddled by potions as he was.
But when they finally left the hospital wing, the strangeness of their situation returned and over the next week, Harry found himself looking for Ron and Hermione. Once, he thought he heard Ron's laugh; he'd even stood on tiptoe to look for him, only to remind himself that it was 1977 and Ron and Hermione were not yet even born. It took a week of this before he was fully recovered from it: it took quite a lot of stern talks with himself.
It made it easier that schoolwork started to pile up, requiring him to forget the 1990s for large swaths of time. Even Old Bones, who had seemed a bit of a soft option, was far more strict than Harry had supposed.
"Yes, yes, you will be working through your book," Old Bones said, seated behind his vast desk cluttered with tools for divination. It was middle of October, and he was grown rather impatient. "We can't go traipse about the grounds every class, or even every week." This was at least the fourth time Old Bones had said this to his exuberant NEWT students; Harry thought he might regret having had a field trip the first day of class. "I still want to see work on your almanacs… we've storms coming up, don't we? And our second big topic of the year will be literomancy."
"Literomancy?" Harry asked.
At the same time, Sirius scoffed. "Literomancy! We studied that in fourth year!"
"Yes, I may be old, but I do remember that." Old Bones remained cheerful. Harry did not think much could fluster the old man, certainly not teenagers. Hiding a smile, he ducked behind his book. "However, in your fourth year, we only covered the basics of what literomancy is. We did not analysis, no proper in-depth study of it. We correct that now, in your sixth year, where we will journey together into the mists of the unknown – and try to find answers. Besides," he added, with a grin, gaze narrowing on James, "as I recall, one of you spent most of the course writing and rewriting a certain name down over and over again in hopes…"
"Evans," Pettigrew snickered.
Harry raised his hand as his father chuckled sheepishly. "Is it divination through literature?" he asked.
"Ah," said Old Bones, "perhaps we do need to brush up on the basics of literomancy." He looked about the classroom, eyeing the four of them. "It is not stories and such – that's another branch of divination, one that we will cover in the spring. It came from the Chinese branches of divination." He rummaged in the clutter on his desk, muttering to himself, and plucked a quill from beneath some loose parchment. A scroll dropped to the ground and rolled toward the window. "See this quill?" The feathers were silvery blue. "This – if a word is drawn with it – has the power to slide the veil back on the future, just a little, mind you—"
"I thought you told us long ago that you don't necessarily need props," said Sirius.
"And you don't, young Black," said Old Bones, smoothing the feather on the quill. "But it is helpful. You like Quidditch, do you not? You are a wizard. You could craft your own broom, apply all the charms necessary to give it flight, and take to the skies. But it is easier to simply buy it." His smile made his whole face wrinkle like a dried apple. "This quill is not… hmm, shall we say powerful? This can be bought at Flourish and Blott's. But it can help you focus. Here – pass it around."
The quill was passed around. It surprised Harry, when he touched it, that a small zing went through him. It was a sensation not unlike when he had first picked up his wand. It was heavier, too, than he expected. Eyebrows slowly rising, he peered at it, saw strange markings etched into the side, and hefted it. Then, passing it on to Sirius, he sat back, wishing Sybill Trelawney's class had ever been half so interesting – or organized – as Old Bones'.
Old Bones clapped his hands once everyone had had a chance to hold the quill. "Never you worry, you'll have another chance to hold this; we'll be doing practical lessons next week; we'll be spending October and the first part of November honing our skills at literomancy, after which we will move on to oneiromancy – divination through dreams. But for now I wish you to reacquaint – or perhaps just acquaint"—here, his kind, twinkling eyes met Harry's—"with proper examples of it. I've pulled out books for you to do just that; you will each take three of them."
Sirius was the first to slide out of his chair, doing so with a groan, shlepping over to the shelf that circled the room and grabbed three books at random. Harry dawdled, watching the other three: James took more time, but only by a few seconds. Pettigrew moaned about, selecting first one then another. Harry picked his way over to the shelf once Pettigrew made his selections, then scanned the books. Some were rather old with Spellotaped covers; others could have been purchased from Flourish and Blott's just the day before, still others were somewhere in between. Indecision gripped him – where did he begin? – until his third scan spotted him five volumes, all with the same, tiny name etched into the leather covers: Dorcas Meadowes.
Harry huffed out a breath through his nose. "Huh," he said. Dorcas Meadowes, she who Sirius – the elder – had been so diligently and futilely searching for? She who Dumbledore considered their best hope to return to the future? She was a Seer?
He took all five volumes back to his seat.
Harry had barely cracked the spine of the first one when Old Bones came to him, standing in front of his desk, and settling gnarled fingers atop one of the other volumes.
"You've taken the whole set," Old Bones said cheerfully.
"They seemed to belong together, sir," said Harry.
"No matter, extra knowledge has never hurt anyone." He paused; the silence was almost delicate. "You've chosen Dorcas Meadowes, then?"
"Yeah," said Harry. "It was the only name I recognized."
"Ah, yes, she is rather famous in our circles."
Harry flipped the page, eyes widening when he saw – instead of what he expected, something like poetry – he saw art. "What the—"
"Yes, Dorcas was quite unusual in her expression of literomancy: most of her works are art rather than words—"
"But wouldn't that be its own thing, sir?" Harry asked, brow furrowing. From what he'd always understood of Divination, each branch had its own complicated name. "Art's different from writing, isn't it?"
"It's the use of the quill that makes it fall under 'literomancy', though you are correct that painting… sketching… even watercolors – there was a whole society of witch watercolorists that fancied themselves seers last century – have their own terms. In fact, she practiced chartomancy of all sorts – chartomancy—"
"Is the term for divination by things on paper," said Harry, who did not want Old Bones to think that he had learned nothing in the three years under Trelawney's instruction, even if that was almost true. "Yeah – so that included art?"
"Of course," said Old Bones. "Well done; I'll leave you to it. Remember, you want to acquaint yourself; you'll have homework I'll pass out later."
But something else had been bothering Harry. "You speak of her in the past tense," he said, as delicately as he could. "But I thought I heard that she was alive?" If she wasn't, he would have to tell Sirius immediately via their mirrors that he had spent so much time – weeks! – looking for a dead woman.
"As far as I know, she lives still," said Old Bones. "But there was an… incident. And she has withdrawn from wizarding society and made herself completely unavailable." There was a hard sort of sorrow in his tone and a scowl on his face. "I know others have searched for her, and found nothing but rumors. So if she still practices the arts of divination, it is employed to keep herself hidden. I expect she has little time to do anything else. Not when others of our kind are looking for her."
Curiosity rose up within Harry, swift and hard.
Before Harry could ask another question, Sirius leaned toward them and asked: "Are you talking of Dorcas Meadowes?"
"Er, yeah," said Harry, holding up one of his books. "I've chosen her to study, but—"
Sirius flicked dark hair out of his eyes. "Yet another illustrious Black," he said, very drily. "Though my mother wouldn't admit it." He gave Harry a sidelong look. "My parents have got this huge, ugly-looking tapestry with all our relatives on it, and if one of them isn't properly evil enough, they get blasted off." A tight grin formed on his face and disappeared. For the first time, Harry saw a resemblance in personality to his older counterpart. "Family lore is she got burned off for marrying a Muggleborn right around the time another Black was trying to make Muggle-hunting legal."
"It wasn't because she was a Seer?"
"No, Seers are pretty sought after in our world," said Sirius, "anyone with a prestigious talent is fairly popular."
"Is that why you keep all your talents hidden?" Pettigrew asked, grinning.
"I've never once in my life hidden a talent of mine," Sirius said, slumping backward in his chair.
"But what about—"
"Sirius," James interrupted loudly, "did you ever meet her?"
"Nope," said Sirius, "she was estranged long before I was born, even before all that with Grindelwald—"
Old Bones cleared his throat. "Gentlemen," he said, "if I could kindly turn your attention back to our studies at hand. This is Divination, not History of Magic… Grindelwald is in the past… we must fix our eyes upon the future."
"Sorry, Old Bones," Sirius said, with a cheerful wave of his hand. "You know I can't resist having a proper go at my parents. But to be honest, she was only about a third cousin, or something."
"Oh, have you stopped bragging?" Pettigrew asked.
This had all but Harry dissolving into laughter and then turning their attention once more to the books in front of them. Harry mimicked doing the same, but his thoughts were tumbling over one another. Why had Sirius not explained in the first place that Dorcas Meadowes was a relation of his? He tried to call up the tapestry in his mind, but he could only remember two of those exiled from the Black family: Alphard and Andromeda. But had he looked at the names even higher up? He remembered very few of them.
Toward the end of class, once Harry had forced himself to do what was assigned, Old Bones rapped on his desk. "I think the time is right," he announced, standing up.
"Time for…?"
Old Bones beckoned them to the window, then opened it. The wind blew in; Harry sucked in a huge breath of it, startled by the cold, clean scent after sitting in the closed room so long. The strong scent of incense swept away. The professor had his eyes closed and was humming a little, nodding along to his own song. It took Harry a couple of seconds to recognize it as the song the frogs sang about the upcoming rains that gave them life.
"I do believe our frog friends were right," Old Bones said, smiling beatifically. "I'll not be embarrassed after all… do you feel it?"
"It rained a few days ago, too, sir – Old Bones," said Harry.
Old Bones beamed at him. "But just for a few moments. I too noticed that, Harry. But this! It's a proper storm, just like our friends warned us! Do you feel it?"
Just as Old Bones asked, Harry felt drops of rain fall upon his face, brought by the wind. Within moments, rain fell in earnest. First Sirius and then James began to laugh, Pettigrew joining in a beat later. Harry expected he didn't know exactly why they were laughing, just knew he wanted to join in. In contrast, Harry felt his face pull downward, frowning, wishing with a sudden heaviness that the frogs had been wrong. It was on his mind, then, the prophecy he'd found in the future, the one that Voldemort had gone to such lengths to get to.
Harry would rather the frogs have been wrong, for Old Bones to have been embarrassed in front of Dumbledore for his inaccurate prophecy. It would mean that Harry had more of a chance for prophecies to not be real, or to be inexact. But he remembered clearly enough from the work he'd done on his almanac that the song of the frogs had predicted the rain nearly to the hour…
HPHPHPHPHPHPHPHPHP
The predictive quality of the frogs held true: a storm boiled up the day before Halloween: Harry watched the clouds grow darker above them in Greenhouse Three, where they were coaxing flaming blooms from the shy fire roses. The first splatters of rain drummed on the glass as Ginny muttered under her breath something about Neville; Harry did not think she expected him to hear her. At first, it seemed not such a large storm, but one that matched his pensive sort of mood. Later that evening, it had burgeoned into the steady sort of rainstorm that was typical in spring, not autumn; it held steady all through the next day, Halloween, until the rain came horizontal against the castle and thunder boomed, rattling the windows, and sending the suits of armor off their perches, restless and uncertain that they were not under attack.
By the time dinner was over, the wind was a constant, raging howl. Harry glanced up at the head table, where the professors sat in clusters, muttering with one another, one of them glancing pointedly at the windows every minute or so.
"If you're worrying about it, this sort of weather happens in Scotland all the time."
Harry jerked out of his thoughts: it was his father who had spoken. Largely, he had got over the strangeness of this time travel; it had almost exactly two months, he could not sustain incredulity for that long. But every once in a while, like now, either his mother or father surprised him, and he had that clench in his belly. James Potter stared at him from across the table, mouth stuffed with bread, eyes kind behind his glasses.
"What kind of Gryffindor would he be if he was scared of a little storm like this?" Sirius joked. Just as he finished speaking, thunder boomed, shaking the castle. Everyone laughed.
"I never saw them sorted," said Pettigrew. "Are we even sure they're Gryffindors?"
"We are indeed, thank you," Ginny said coldly, sliding forward. Her hair was still damp from running across the courtyard: that, combined with the unsmiling look on her face gave her the look of a hunting cat.
Harry smirked.
"Well there you go, Wormtail," Sirius said. "The Peverell has spoken."
"We're no cowards," Harry ventured, staring at Pettigrew, who grew flushed. His watery blue eyes flicked to the left, at James, then at Sirius. "If that was what you were implying," he added, rather belatedly.
"'Course not," said James, still cheerful. Harry could not help being relieved his father was not a natural legilimens.
"Well, I didn't see them sorted," muttered Pettigrew.
"Our guardian had us do it when we got here," lied Ginny unblushingly.
Sirius perked up at that, letting a bit of rice fall off his fork and into his lap. "Your guardian… he's a Black, isn't he? I heard that… is it true? If so… you have my condolences."
"He's one of the good ones," Harry said, with a grin. "Though we have heard stories of the line."
"What's his name? I've got our family tree printed in my brain, I've probably seen his name on there," said Sirius, now leaning forward, grey eyes bright.
"It's – uh – Sol," said Harry, stumbling over the lie. "Sol Black."
"Huh," said Sirius, falling back against his seat. "That's not familiar…"
"I don't think he's been connected to the family in a long time," Ginny offered. "I don't think his parents were, either, and… you know, they didn't live in Britain."
"Good for them," said Sirius, "for escaping."
"Very Slytherin-like," Pettigrew muttered.
"Give it up, mate," James said, with more fondness than Harry thought warranted, and cuffed him on the back of the head. "The Peverells are here to stay…"
Harry glanced at Ginny. They were certainly here much longer than expected: he had not thought it would take Sirius so long to find one witch.
"Speaking of Gryffindor," said James, leaning forward, voice dropping, "we've got a bit of a tradition going on tonight."
"You're telling them?" Pettigrew said, bolting upright.
"I myself think it would be quite difficult to hide a party in the common room from someone who lives in Gryffindor Tower," said Sirius, tipping his head back. A fresh spate of rain slashed against the walls of the castle, nearly drowning out his words.
"A party?" Harry said, curious. He looked up and down the table: the plates were still heaped high with food. Halloween night was an odd choice for a common room party, not when there was a late night feast down in the Great Hall. He looked from James to Sirius and back again. "On Halloween?"
"Yeah," said James. "We'll go up and wait for the younger years to go to bed… it's not a wild party—"
"James has got to be a good boy now he's got the badge," said Sirius. "So nothing too wild. But yeah, we have a bit of a party… it's great. It's only too bad Remus is visiting his aunt."
The full moon had been two nights ago: Harry figured that Remus was still recovering from the change, perhaps still at the Shrieking Shack, drinking his potions that would ease the pain of it. As he eyed his father and Sirius, he wondered, idly, if it hurt to change as an animagus. He knew it was painful for Remus, but for a wizard or witch who chose to change? Would that be different?
Ginny nudged him with her elbow.
"Oh," said Harry, "um, sure, yeah. That sounds fun."
"Oi! Potter!"
Both Harry and James turned: Harry earned another nudge in the ribs from Ginny. He then tilted his head back and forth, as though he'd been stretching his neck, hearing it crack, confident that none of the others had noticed that he had answered rather quickly to the name 'Potter'. The rest of the feast went smoothly. Harry finished his chicken and added a bit of ham to his plate about five seconds before the feast disappeared and puddings of all kinds replaced it.
HPHPHPHPHPHPHPHP
Later, as he climbed the stairs, comfortably full – perhaps slightly too full, as he'd taken the last bit of treacle tart on the tray, after his father had nudged it toward him – he thought ahead of the party that was to be had once the younger students had gone to bed. The parties Harry'd been to were not so much parties as raucous celebrations that ended when McGonagall thought they were being too loud. Sirius and James had disappeared, sidling off somewhere as soon as they'd left the Great Hall. What were they going to get? Butterbeer from the kitchens?
"What do you think it'll be like?" Harry whispered out of the corner of his mouth.
"The party? I dunno," said Ginny. "Bill used to talk about the parties they used to have, but…" Her face pinched in a little. A pang of guilt went through him.
"Think of the stories you'll be able to tell him," said Harry, grinning a little.
She smiled a little, ducking her head toward her shoulder. "I – yeah. I'm sure we'll have some good ones."
Harry watched her a bit longer, worry gnawing at him. It had to be harder for her than for him. Other than Ron and Hermione, Harry had no family to miss: In fact, his family was here. Ginny had parents and six brothers and all sorts to miss. He'd always thought she and her mum were particularly close; they had to be, what with all the boys in the house. But – if she was crying in her room over it, Harry had seen little evidence of it. Ginny, it seemed, had grown out of her tendency to cry a lot.
"What're you smiling about?" Ginny asked, puzzled.
Harry shook his head. "Nothing, just thinking." But he was still smirking a bit when they reached the Fat Lady. He hung back, letting Ginny climb through the portrait hole ahead of him, and stared back down the hall, wondering where James and Sirius had gotten off to. But after a few minutes, when they still hadn't appeared, Harry climbed through, then stopped to gape around at the changes in the common room.
The younger students had already been packed off to bed: Only the sixth and seventh years mingled down in the low light. Ghostly blue lights flickered in the corners, seeming to enhance the darkness, creating shadows that moved. That, along with the storm still raging, made him feel he had taken a wrong turn somewhere and found himself in the Slytherin common room in the dungeons below the lake. Only once had he been there, but it was etched into his brain, the creepiness of it.
There was a rush of air, and James and Sirius came in laughing, buffeting Harry ahead of them and fully into the room. Cheers erupted when they held up a small bottle of – Harry squinted – mead. "We got it," crowed James.
"Well of course you did." Lily detached from the crowd by the fire and stepped forward, beaming, Nimue coiling around her feet. "You're of age, Rosmerta can't stop you."
"Nor would she want to," said Sirius, "not really."
Cups were conjured from thin air and passed around. A couple of enterprising third years attempted to sneak back down the stairs, but James sent them off with a bang from his wand and a stern word. Dejected, they climbed back up, as Lily poured mead into everyone's glass. "It's potent," she warned Harry and Ginny. "I've had this before; you'll only want a little bit."
"Okay," said Harry, sniffing at the amber liquid. The scent of alcohol was quite strong.
"Give it over here, Lily," ordered Pettigrew.
"Enjoy," said Lily, flashing them a smile, before crossing the room to Pettigrew.
Harry took a small sip as everyone settled. Honey burned on his tongue and he breathed out through his nose. "It is strong," he said. Harry looked around the room: not everyone from sixth and seventh years had remained, perhaps not wanting to drink; perhaps they only wanted to sleep off the feast, or study, or prepare for the next day. Whatever the reason, there were only eight of them. James and Sirius went about, darkening the room, damping the fire until it was only a bit of a hot glow in the hearth.
"So," said James, leaning forward, elbows on his knees. Lightning flashed, illuminating his face. He spoke softly. Harry had to strain to hear him over the slash of rain against the tower. "Who wants to go first?"
"And what are we doing?" Ginny asked, amused.
"I want to go first," said Pettigrew. "I've got a good one, finally."
"You say that every year," said Remus, reaching over and tousling his hair. "I don't want to go first. My life is terrifying enough without having to come up with a scary story."
Harry exchanged a glance with Ginny.
"Get on with it, then!" said Sirius.
Pettigrew settled back. "There once were two wizards, recently out of school. They were good friends… they'd been year-mates. One went into the Ministry of Magic like his parents, and the other found work in Horizont Alley—"
"At least it wasn't Carne Alley," James snickered.
"Or Jennit," said Lily, slyly.
Harry took a sip of his mead, trying not to stare as his parents shared a laughing look, beaming at one another, clearly in high spirits. They liked to have a laugh together, his parents. He hadn't realized that. He let Pettigrew's story wash over him, and watched them surreptitiously. It could not hold his interest, this story about a wizard whose watch began to act as though cursed: first, making him late, then, burning him, and finally, severely wounding a girlfriend who was then taken to St Mungo's. Pettigrew droned on; Harry watched his parents under his eyelashes.
A while later, Ginny snorted. It startled Harry.
"What is it?"
"Pettigrew's story," she breathed.
Harry looked around.
"—and all this time, his watch had been cursed — cursed by his Muggleborn best friend. And then, when he'd trounced the Muggleborn with his wand, he said 'why? Why would you do this to me? Why would you curse my watch?'" Pettigrew looked round the room. "And the traitor wept and said 'you have everything… you were born to this… you have it all, the job, the broom, the magical parents—"
"Oh Merlin," Sirius's head dropped back onto the sofa and he groaned. "Don't say it. Don't tell me the watch was cursed because a Muggleborn was jealous of a pureblood."
"It — no! He could've been a half-blood," said Pettigrew. "He was jealous, though—"
James chuckled. "Sounds like a scary bedtime story the seventh year Slytherin tell the first years."
"My mum told it to me, and she knew who it happened to," Pettigrew insisted, stubborn.
"Oh Peter," Lily said fondly, ruffling his hair. "You're so gullible."
"See! Lily's not mad!"
"I'm not, I know your heart's in the right place," Lily agreed, "but I've got my own spooky story to tell…"
Harry tipped his head back and drained the rest of the mead. You can't do anything, he reminded himself. There's nothing you can do. As much as he hated to see it, knowing what was coming for them, he couldn't risk changing anything that threatened his own existence. Sirius had been right… But he allowed himself a few moments to dream of standing up and cursing Pettigrew.
"All right, Harry?" Ginny asked softly.
He looked at her. "Yeah — I… yeah." There was warmth and understanding in her brown eyes. His lips tugged up into a smile. "It's just the mead."
In reply, she took another sip of her own. Lily had launched into a story about a 'viper'. Harry's attention was snagged when she affected a German accent; he looked from Ginny to his mother. Was there something about this story that was familiar? It was about a young man, living in a flat above a store in Diagon Alley, who kept receiving menacing messages from a 'viper'. It had everyone at the ends of their seats – Harry was more puzzled than anything. Had he heard this story before?
"Bloke should just Apparate away," said Sirius. "That's what I'd do, if some 'viper' kept threatening me."
"He should contact the Ministry," offered Pettigrew.
"Shhh," said James, cutting his hand through the air. His hazel eyes were glittering.
"…finally, there was a knock on the door." Lily continued on, ignoring the comments from the others. Harry couldn't help but admire her story-telling. "The wizard held his wand. His hand shook so much, he nearly dropped it. With his other hand, he opened the door—"
"What an idiot," muttered Sirius.
"—and there was a little old wizard, wearing a flowered cap, and holding a silvery cloth. He blinked up at the other wizard, giving him a toothless grin. 'I am the viper,' he said, in a thick German accent, 'I vant to vash and vipe your vand'."
As one, everyone in the room groaned, Harry included. He had heard this story, hadn't he?
James, laughing, affected a bow. His eyes, of course, were fixed on Lily. "Well done," he said, cheerfully. "You win… so far…"
"Where'd that story come from?" Harry asked. "Is it a—"
"Oh, it's mostly a Muggle story," said Lily, tucking a strand of red hair behind her ear, and giving him a matter-of-fact look. "Children tell it at Muggle sleepovers… versions of it are in spooky books. I just adapted it to make it more… magical."
"It's really good!" said Harry.
"Well, then, whose turn is it?" Sirius asked, affably. "Mary, is it you?"
Mary held up both hands. Her toad seized the moment to leap from her lap, hopping for all he was worth for freedom. "I haven't got a story in me," she announced. "Not anything worth telling, anyway. Ferdinand, come back here!" She rose from her chair. "Ferdinand!"
"Don't worry, Mary," said Lily, "he's fine. Look, I've got Nimue…"
Mary grumbled, but sat back in her chair. "I still don't want to tell a story," she mumbled.
"Don't worry, Mary, I've got one," said James, who was tipped back in his chair, a lazy grin on his face.
"Do tell," said Pettigrew. Sweat gave his red face an additional sheen.
James sat his chair upright, took a swig of his mead, and wriggled his shoulders. Harry mimicked him: the sweet alcohol left a bit of honeyed fire In its wake. Then, as James flicked his wand, the lights dimmed and the fire died to low embers. It crackled and popped. With a whispered "lumos", James's wand tip ignited. Held under his chin, it gave Harry's father an eerie glow, as though he were underwater.
"Well?" Sirius said expectantly.
James took a deep breath and then, in a deep voice, began: "There once were three brothers—"
Tumult broke out.
"Ah, not again!"
"Ugh, you love this story… too much…"
"I love this one." Lily's loyal voice joined in the clamor.
"Which one is this again?" Mary McDonald asked, blinking. "Is this the one with the cackling stump?"
"No," said Sirius, "It's the—"
"If you'd let me tell it, she'd figure it out for herself," said James, tossing a pillow at him.
"Fair enough," said Sirius.
"Anyway," said James, drawing himself up again. "There once were three brothers who were traveling along a lonely, winding road at midnight—"
"Midnight!" Sirius erupted. "It's twilight, you dramatic—"
"I've always heard twilight," Remus agreed.
"Both of them are scary," said Mary, shivering.
"My mum always said midnight," said Ginny, speaking for the first time in quite a while. "We always heard it was midnight, anyway. It's—"
"—spookier," finished James, grinning at her. "My mum says the same thing."
Lily cleared her throat. "I haven't heard the story," she said. "So I think we should just let James continue on…"
Harry took the opportunity to pour another glass of mead. His father continued a rather theatrically told story about three wizards who met Death, and tricked it into giving them powerful objects. Harry's attention wandered during the telling of the tale; he found himself sinking into the comfort of the mead, which somehow managed to encompass and enrich the near-liquid warmth of the fire beside him, the red of Ginny's hair, and the coziness of the tableau. His father's words washed over him. Harry shifted in the chair; the peace of near-pure enjoyment settled in him.
This was, he realized, a memory he would get to keep.
By the time the last brother took off his invisibility cloak and greeted death, Harry was nearly asleep. His thoughts were scattering, thinking simultaneously of his parents and his own invisibility cloak that was stashed under his mattress. If he'd had Death's own invisibility cloak, he'd throw it over his parents…
"Excellent rendition, mate," Sirius said, standing to applaud. "Mrs. Potter would be proud."
"Thanks," said James, beaming.
"It's my turn, then, is it?" Sirius asked, looking around. "Forgive me if I don't tell another from Beedle the Bard…"
Mary cupped her hands over her mouth. "Do Babbity Rabbity!" she said loudly.
"Too scary," Sirius said easily, as the others laughed. "No… I think I've got a good one."
The others settled. Harry sat up, brushing his own sleepiness off him. Ginny stirred as well, curling up fully onto the seat. Her foot almost – but not quite – touched his thigh. At the point of near intersection, the skin on his leg tingled, further awakening him.
"Long ago, there were two families," said Sirius. His wandlight cast an eerie glow on his face, transforming it into a twisted version of itself. It caught Harry's attention, keeping it. "One was renown for its famous acquaintance with a birds of ancient and mythical lore. The other was headed by a jealous man, who envied the other family their good fortune. So he set out to even the balance. 'If that family may call upon the phoenix in their time of need, our family will share the same fortune.'"
"That's the Dumbledores," said Pettigrew, stuffed with self-importance.
James cut his hand through the air. "Shh," he said.
Sirius ignored both interruptions. "He traveled to the north, into endless ice—"
"So poetic," said Lily, toasting him with her cup.
"Phoenixes live in the snow?" asked Mary.
"—until he found, as he had researched, a snowy peak. He climbed the mountain, using every bit of magic he possessed, and finally — at last — he found a nest filled with three perfect eggs—"
Harry could not stop himself. "Do phoenixes hatch from eggs?"
Sirius smirked at him. "Good question," he said. "My stupid ancestor should have asked it. But no… everyone knew that the Dumbledores had done a task that required great valor to gain the regard of a phoenix… my ancestor thought he could just steal eggs and be done with it." He took a breath. "He stole those eggs, and took them back to Britain with him, secreting them away, and using magic to warm their nest in absence of their parents. But try as he might, the eggs did not hatch, but darkened bit by bit until they were black and grey. He thought the birds dead within their shells, and tucked them away, bitter and jealous that the Dumbledores had their birds and he did not. But in time, he put it out of his mind; he went on to marry, the phoenix eggs all but forgotten. By the time his third child was born, he scarcely remembered his journey to the north."
All was quiet. Sirius sipped from his cup. "The night his third child, a daughter, was born, there was a cry come from not inside the house, but out of it. Bewildered, he lit his wand. But there was nothing there outside the window. Later, he heard a scratch at the door. He opened it, but nothing was there. At last, he went to bed as his wife labored. He slept an hour or so… and then bolted upright. There, staring at him from his chair, was a bird of immense size, with dark dappled wings and a beady stare."
Harry leaned forward.
"'You have stolen my three children,' said the bird. 'Now I will steal yours.' The man protested, but the bird repeated what he said three times again. 'One you will lose to death, the other to madness… the third will see it all but will be powerless to stop it.'"
"The fool stole the eggs of an Augury," said James, slapping his thigh.
"Indeed he did," said Sirius. "The next morning, he thought it was a dream. But it disturbed him enough he wrote it in his journal, along with a sketch of the bird. But he might have been right about it being a dream… when he entered his wife's bedroom and met his daughter, she seemed perfect to him. How could his family now be cursed? But every once in a while, through the years, he would hear the cry of the Augury, and foreboding would sweep through him. But mostly he would forget, especially as he and his wife added more children to their family until there were six, all named for stars. It wasn't until the third child, the daughter, was fifteen that the Augury's predictions came true."
"What happened?" Lily whispered, hand over her mouth.
"One night, after midnight, she walked into her parents' room, stood at the side of their bed, and whispered 'he will die' over and over again until both mother and father were awake. They demanded to know more, but that was all she would say. Her eyes were wide and unseeing. They shook her, but she wouldn't stop her whispering. Finally, they used magic to send her to sleep. When she woke up the next day, she remembered nothing. Now, the oldest son was preparing to leave on a tour of the continent, planning to visit all the major magical enclaves in Europe. Despite his father's foreboding, he left, brash and arrogant…"
Sirius paused for a sip of water. "He did not survive his trip. Word was sent back, along with his wand so that his parents would know it was him. The story went that he was drunk and wandered into a patch of woods beside an inn for a piss, but found a full-grown devil's snare; it ripped him apart. But one of his companions – years later – said he was not that drunk, but that he was following the call of a bird, that something had him in its grip and he was powerless to stop himself. None of the others could stop him either."
"So it was true, then?" James asked, crossing his legs at the ankle. "What the Augury said?"
"Yeah," said Sirius, "it appeared so. Not even a year later, the second son fell into a pit on his family's property… he wasn't found for three days. By the time they pulled him up, he was raving. Never regained sanity. And the sister saw that happen, too."
"You Blacks," said Pettigrew, half-admiring.
"And it's a curse that hasn't relented…" said Sirius. "It's not just an ancestor tale… every generation, we've got a seer, a madman – or woman – and someone who dies young. Every generation."
"Never piss off an Augury," said James. He sat up, grinning. "And which one will you be?"
"Me?" asked Sirius. "I'm hoping I've dodged it…"
"If you've got to be one of them, I hope you're the seer," said Mary.
"Yes, we wouldn't want to lose you to death or madness," said Lily.
"Well, I'm not the mad one in the family," said Sirius, "pretty sure that one is reserved for Bellatrix – my cousin, you know." He shuddered; it was not an affectation. Something dark washed over his face, just as fresh thunder clapped outside the coziness of the tower. "She's the mad one."
James clapped him on the shoulder. "We know," he said. "And you can't be the one who dies young… we've got to grow old together…"
"How romantic," Lily teased.
"You'll have kicked me out of the house by then," said James, winking at her. "Fifty years, and you'll have tired of me."
A flush climbed up Lily's cheeks. She bit her lip, but didn't say anything.
"Now that," said Sirius, all darkness having fled his face in favor of a grin, "was romantic. Good one, James."
Harry chuckled with the others, but noted that his mother did not deny the romance of James's words. He watched her for a moment, watching her smile at James as he laughed with Sirius, a bit of tenderness around the eyes. He looked away, to find Ginny watching him; they shared a smile. Harry let his linger: It was bittersweet, this, watching his parents dance closer together, knowing they were inevitable.
HPHPHPHPHPHPHPHPHP
Perhaps it was the lateness of the hour, the storm, or the small glass of mead he'd had, but Harry dropped off to sleep as soon as he stretched out on his bed and pulled the covers over himself. His glasses slipped off the bedside table, imperfectly placed by tired hands, but Harry was already unaware, mouth open. The storm followed him into his dreams, not letting up even a bit, and Harry found himself humming along with the frogs this song of the storm.
They were all around him now, the frogs, hopping up and down, singing in their croaky voices, telling him this storm was just the beginning, that it was going to last forever, this storm.
"C'mon!" Harry shouted at the frogs. "We've got to tell Dumbledore, then, haven't we?"
But no matter how hard he pointed toward the castle, the frogs would not leave this marginal space on the shore between lake and forest. "Go," they told him, "if you aren't going to sing with us anymore, just go." And even though Harry wasn't sure Dumbledore would believe him without the frogs, he began the long trudge back to the castle. The further away from the frogs he got, the less urgent he became. He was striding along now, still moving quickly, but the storm was less worrisome. In fact, was it not convenient that it was storming? Did it not serve his purpose?
Harry continued on around the lake, now deciding not to go through the front doors: it would not do if anyone saw him. That was the point of him waiting until the autumn squall was blowing its hardest. "Hurry up!" he snapped. Someone was following him…
HPHPHPHPHPHPHPHP
"Yes, my lord. I am hurrying, my Lord."
The footsteps shuffled closer. Lightning arced across the sky; he had no fear they would be illuminated. It was long past midnight: The students were asleep in their beds, the rain splattered their windows, and the darkness was near absolute. He could have done a disillusionment charm, but it was unnecessary. Why waste his power? It was Dumbledore… only Dumbledore… who might be a threat, but the storm was a cover for their movements… and he, Lord Voldemort, had a servant inside who had provided him the way in.
"Will Dumbledore—"
"No," snapped Voldemort. Here, they found an old, crumbling part of the castle wall. Here, at the edge of the lake, was a door half the size of a wizard. It was open, over so slightly, no more than a couple of inches. Satisfied, Voldemort opened it further, gesturing in his servant, who stumbled over the threshold. He was careful it did not fully close behind him. Right now, this entrance – carefully placed – was not subject to the school's magical protections, painstakingly cared for by Albus Dumbledore. Should it shut, Voldemort and his servant would find themselves trapped there, unable to leave without alerting the Headmaster that he was there.
It would not do for that to happen. Should they duel – and they would, Voldemort was certain of it, had in fact gone to lengths that it would happen – he need not give Dumbledore the advantage by allowing their duel to occur at Hogwarts.
This was one of the passages in and out of Hogwarts; there were several. Voldemort had discovered them all when in his own youth, when he was still Tom Riddle, and just starting along his path to immortality. This passage was small and cramped, meant for house elves rather than people. The two pressed forward, first going down crumbling stone stairs, and then climbing rapidly.
"Stop," Voldemort ordered, when a door appeared just ahead of them. This time, he cast the disillusionment charm on both himself and his servant. "This passage leads to the second-floor corridor. The bathroom is located there. Be very quiet: I am told there is a ghost who lurks there. I cannot have her go to Dumbledore."
"Yes, my lord."
It was long past midnight. There was no one in the corridor. The suits of armor did not even turn as they passed, though some looked worse for the wear. Only one lone creature appeared to sense them. A fat toad with a marking on its head croaked at them from a shadowy corner, its wet eyes glistening, staring at them. His servant raised his wand, hissed a curse, and the toad would croak no more.
"Pyrites," Voldemort warned, "do not be distracted."
Pyrites grunted.
They stopped just outside the door. Voldemort drew his wand; it was warm in his fingers. Myrtle had haunted this bathroom since the last time Voldemort had opened the door to Salazar Slytherin's lair: Her death had been the culmination of his plans, rudimentary though they were, though still brilliant for the age he had been. Her death had been for the ultimate good: There was one less Mudblood to dirty the culture of Hogwarts, and had been an important part of a ritual.
"Get rid of the ghost," he ordered his servant.
Pyrites did not enter the room, but performed the complex charm that would blast the ghost away. Myrtle would return, but it would take days. Voldemort strode in, going straight to the sinks. Calm settled over him when he found his ancestor's mark. Open, he hissed, in the language for the purest of the purebloods. His own blood surged when the sink moved away from the wall, revealing the pipe behind it. "You first," he said, gesturing.
Without a word, Pyrites slipped into the pipe and slid out of sight in seconds. Voldemort folded his hands, bowing his head. He would meet the basilisk again tonight, the most powerfully magical, most powerfully dangerous snake in the known world. It would do his bidding, just as it had done the last time he was here.
His confidence did not falter, not as he slid down into the depths of the school where only Salazar Slytherin had reigned, not as he whispered to the snakes embedded into the door further away, and not as he stepped over the threshold and entered the lair of the greatest of snakes. He took a moment to breathe inward. His nose burned at the smell of musky reptile and near-stagnant water. It was dark here, dark as pitch, until he hissed another word and green lights kindled in the eyes of the snakes decorating the walls. The statue was large as he remembered, its simian features staring at him as though with reproach, as though Salazar Slytherin reprimanded his descendant for not visiting more often.
But when Voldemort began to croon to it, beckoning the basilisk he knew to be hidden here, charming it as he had done first when he was fifteen and still discovering his own powers, he saw the water begin to stir. How long had it taken him to take full control of it? Two full terms? The ripples grew in strength. Pyrites, a faithful servant, was rigid and quiet. A grinding, sawing sound disturbed the quiet, much as the ripples marred the surface of the water. Salazar Slytherin's jaw was opening, slowly dropping open, a black maw revealed slowly. Then, there was a glitter of jewel-like scales.
Voldemort kept his eyes open. The basilisk would not freeze him, not him, not Lord Voldemort.
You come again.
"I am here, my old friend." And in truth – Voldemort had not had such a friend as the basilisk… not even his Death Eaters. "I have come to ask one last favor of you."
You have been gone long and long.
Voldemort held still. The basilisk smoothly slid out of the statue's mouth and moved sinuously toward him. "I have," he said finally. "I had needed to leave the skin of the boy I was at Hogwarts behind. I needed to hatch from this egg, to make my way outward, to push the limits of my power."
It has been decades.
He had not expected the snake to question him. It was just as well Pyrites was no more of a Parselmouth than the statue. "In fact, I tried to return," Voldemort said, as soothingly as he could. "I would have returned as a professor. We could have been together often, you and I. But I was blocked – blocked by an old fool of a Headmaster."
The vast snake's body writhed, sending waves against the walls and columns.
"I was forced to sneak in here to avoid his notice," said Voldemort. "I am afraid he is not my friend. Not as you are."
The basilisk, he could tell, was mollified.
Voldemort reached out a hand and stroked its neck. The scales near tore his flesh, but Voldemort did not care, not when he was so close to gaining what he needed. "I have missed you, my old friend. No one else has done so much for me… without question… without remonstrance… always, they balk." This was not fair, not truly to Bellatrix Lestrange, though even she, at the beginning, had had her moments… they all had. "But not you. Never you."
The snake let out not a hiss, but a sigh. And then, as forlorn as a reptile could sound, said: I suppose you need me once more?
"Not for the same reason as the days of old, when I attended this school. The day for culling Mudbloods will come again, my brave boy. In fact…" And Voldemort explained his plan to the basilisk in hisses and snarls, how it was another sort of culling, one that would have an even larger reach. It would, in essence, set the basilisk against the entire population. By the time he was done, the basilisk was writhing in pleasure. It had never once faltered from the path Slytherin himself had set it on. "All I need for you is a single drop of your blood."
You may have it.
Voldemort reached into his robes and took out the cup. It gleamed in the dim light. There were red streaks in it, subtle ones. They had not been there when he had first obtained it, back from Hepzibah Smith. It was warm in his hand. With his other hand, he made a decisive gesture with his wand, spreading two scales apart, stretching it until dark red blood welled. He held the cup under it; his heart sped up by a measure as one, then two, then three drops fell into the cup. When blood met gold, it hissed. There was a faint echo swirling out of the cup, up toward the sky; it was as though the bit of Voldemort's own soul that lay protected within the cup celebrated with them. He peered into it: where the blood had met, there were dark scorch marks. But the Horcrux had protected itself from the fearsomely poisonous blood: the three drops orbited each other, tumbling around one another, no longer touching the gold.
"Well done," he told the part of himself that was no longer connected to him.
"My Lord—"
"Pyrites," Voldemort snapped. "We have brought a present for our friend, as you remember. Reveal it."
Pyrites snapped a word. There was a crash. A brown sack appeared out of thin air and dropped to the floor. The sack did not move; the basilisk flicked its tongue at it. Very good, it said with approval.
"Come, Pyrites. Let us leave our friend with his snack…"
HPHPHPHPHPHPHP
Harry bolted upright, heart heaving in his chest, kicking at the constricting bedclothes; he kicked so hard, he tumbled from the bed, catching his head against the corner of the nightstand. Pain erupted there, and he lay there, stunned, catching his breath, staring up at the ceiling. Voldemort – Chamber of Secrets – basilisk—
The words and images flooded his mind, but receded almost as quickly. Harry tried to catch hold of the dream – damn it, where had it been? He'd started out with the frogs, and then Voldemort was there? Where had he gone? The dream, which had been so present a moment ago – Harry had felt like he was there, somewhere, with Voldemort… and there had been a cup… and something sizzling.
But by the time Harry blinked and rubbed his eyes, then pressed trembling fingers against his scar, almost everything from the dream was gone, except that Voldemort had had some sort of plan… With a groan, he scrubbed his eyes with the heels of his hands, pressing down hard. Maybe it was the stories, he thought, remembering the night before. The mead and the scary stories… his mind had conjured one of its own. But, even as he tried to convince himself, he knew it wasn't true.
He picked himself up off the floor, rubbing at the back of his head with one hand and the front of it with the other, wincing. This was not the first time he had dreamed of Voldemort and what Voldemort had been up to. He stumbled over to the window. Had Voldemort been here last night? The storm had broken. The window was still wet, but no rain spattered against it.
Harry swallowed, pressing his forehead against the glass of the window. It soothed the pain in his scar. What would this Dumbledore do if Harry went to him, telling him his scar hurt, and telling him of the other times it had done so? Would he think Harry mad?
Better not to tell him, Harry told himself. He could do it on his own… he could practice emptying his mind… he could try to master Occlumency on his own…
And that's what I'll do.