Every day for the next few weeks, Harry paused, hand catching on a wall, his dream come to haunt him. Each time, whether it was in Professor McKinnon's Defense Against the Dark Arts class, or just after breakfast, or when he and Ginny were studying in the library — nominally, they were working on her classes, but they often finished the evening by trying to work out the modern charms on racing brooms — wherever he was, he paused, and considered going to Dumbledore. He did not remember it, not fully, but the parts he did remember disturbed him, catching him at odd hours.
Harry sighed, pushing aside his half-eaten meal.
"All right, Harry?" Ginny murmured, eyes still on her Quidditch Weekly magazine which sported a winking wizard with a rather bushy mustache on the cover.
Harry thought about telling her nearly as often as he did Dumbledore. He looked at her: full sunlight poured in through the windows, illuminating her hair. He knew what she would tell him — and, though he'd begrudged it at the time, her insistence on coming to Hogwarts had been right. Ginny would want him to go to Dumbledore with this information. And now, this moment, looking at her, he had a vague, unsettled feeling welling up from his past that Ginny might well be angry he didn't share it with her straight off.
"Do you ever think about it?" he asked abruptly.
"Hmm?" she said. "Think about what? Home? Of course I—"
"The Chamber," he interrupted. Then, tilting his head: "Do you ever think about the Chamber?"
Her magazine shut with a snap, and her lips parted, crumpling at the edge, making Harry regret his question.
"I'm sorry," he said, "I didn't mean—"
"Nearly every day," she said, soft and remote.
Harry pressed his fingertips into the wood of the table. "I dreamed about it the other night — in fact, I…" It was right there. The words were in his mouth. But she would insist he march up to Dumbledore's office straightaway… but how could he possibly tell Dumbledore this? Not after the subterfuge of the last months, playing at being a normal — albeit from the future — sixteen year old wizard. His tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth.
"It's strange, knowing it's still alive — or alive again," said Ginny. "As is the diary."
Harry swallowed. "Yeah," he said. "Listen, I…"
"You what?" she prompted.
"I fancy trying out some more charms on the broom," said Harry, making his decision. "Care to join me?"
"Sure," said Ginny.
That was the closest he came to revealing the details of his dream. After that, Harry decided it was nerves; there hadn't been any truth in it. Still, he wandered by himself, a couple days later, to the lake. The door in the wall was firmly shut. Harry pressed his hand to it, pressing his fingertips into the chipped and weathered wood, ignoring the immediate sting of a splinter.
It had been a nightmare, nothing more.
The dream went forgotten when Sirius came in the third week of November, face lined with exhaustion, dark bags under his eyes, and a twitch in his mouth. "Well, I've found her," he announced.
They were in the Room of Requirement, the three of them. It had conjured up a sitting area for them, one not unlike Mrs. Figg's, with the older ornaments. It did lack, however, the smell of cats, for which Harry was grateful. It was just the three of them, for now, though Dumbledore was expected at any moment.
The night before school was to start, Sirius clasped his shoulder and steered him toward the row of suits of armor, stopping just out of earshot. There was a determined, even grim look on his face.
"You know who you'll be seeing tomorrow," he said, without preamble.
"Yes," said Harry, who had, with all honesty, not stopped thinking about it since their meeting with Dumbledore. "My parents—"
"Not just them," Sirius interrupted. His grey gaze did not waver. "You'll see Pettigrew. Snape."
A frisson went through Harry, chilling him. "I—"
"You'll see them, especially Pettigrew," Sirius went on. "You'll see him as a firm part of your parents's friend group… you'll see them laughing, teasing… you'll see them coddling him." He rubbed his jaw. "You can't — you won't be able to do anything about it, Harry. We can't risk changing the future."
"I know," said Harry, testily. "You've said that before."
"And tomorrow," said Sirius, "you have to live it."
And Harry had done so for the last two and a half months.
"You… found her?" Harry said, cautious.
"I believe so, yes," said Sirius. There was a loosening in his mouth. "I could be wrong."
"Why didn't Dumbledore try to contact her?" Ginny asked. "All this time, and I've never understood why she hasn't sent an owl."
"She's unreachable," said Sirius.
"But—"
"She's made herself Unplottable, has done all sorts of other charms, I'm sure." Sirius leaned forward. "What you have to understand is that she uses foresight in order to avoid whatever she doesn't want to deal with… I've spent the last two months following a very vague map that Dumbledore allowed me… I can't talk too much about it, otherwise it might throw all my progress away."
"I don't understand, though," said Harry, whose exasperation with their situation rushed into him all at once. "If, as Ginny said, Dumbledore approached her—"
"Why would she trust that I wasn't coercing Dumbledore?" Sirius asked, leaning forward in his chair.
Ginny made an outraged sound. "But that's impossible," she said.
"But it's not," said Sirius. "If Dumbledore contacted Dorcas Meadows, and she saw that it was on my behalf, she would not trust that he was doing it of his own free will."
"She's that paranoid?" Harry asked. "I mean, I know that Old Bones said that Grindelwald was looking for her—"
"—and found her family," said Sirius, "killed them, and used them to perform… well, let's just say there are methods of divination that…" His voice trailed away, and he shook his head. "Dorcas Meadowes has earned whatever methods she takes to keep herself ahead of those who are looking for her."
Harry unstuck his tongue from the roof of his mouth. Old Bones, likely cognizant of their surroundings, had omitted these facts.
"Her family?" Ginny said, cautious.
"Parents, brother, two nephews," said Sirius. "A niece, who was attending Hogwarts at the time, lived. From what I'm told, Dorcas Meadowes knew from her own foresight that choosing to go to Hogwarts and rescue her… this was the only way that she could save any of her family."
Harry saw his own horror reflected on Ginny's face.
"She saw what was going to happen and made the choice to go to Hogwarts?" Harry asked, after he cleared his throat and shuffled his feet. Harry could not think of many decisions more terrible than the one Meadowes had been forced to make.
"Indeed," said Sirius.
"What happened to her niece?" Ginny asked.
"That I don't know," said Sirius. "If the niece still lives with her, if she's changed her name and lives in the countryside with three children, if she was sent to some other country… I don't know. I doubt even Dumbledore would know. Dorcas takes her privacy that seriously."
"You're not joking," said Harry.
Some time later, after Ginny had left the Room of Requirement to go study for Ancient Runes, Harry and Sirius remained in front of the fire. Harry was still considering the painful choices that Meadowes had been forced to make. It reminded him, in some vague way, the choice he was making in keeping his silence, biting his tongue, and not telling his parents…
"All right, Harry?" Sirius asked.
The Room of Requirement had conjured up rather chintzy armchairs for their use. Harry plucked at the tight thread of his; avoiding his godfather's gaze. There was a lump in his throat that had not been there a moment ago. Embarrassment burned in his belly.
"I can see that's a delicate question," said Sirius.
Without thinking of it, Harry jerked his head back. "How do you stand it?" he demanded fiercely. "I can barely look at Pettigrew. My – James and younger you have noticed, I think." His hands clenched; he forced them to relax, suddenly grateful that Ginny was not here to witness this. "I hate him."
Sirius was looking at him: there was no hint of surprise on his face. "As," said Sirius, "do I."
Awareness bubbled up within him: They were in the past. Right now, James and Lily were alive. They were here. What if Harry could do something? What was stopping him? Pettigrew wouldn't have to die… His thoughts floated to Gilderoy Lockhart. There were ways. What if Harry could discover one that would—
"Careful, Harry," Sirius said, very quietly.
Harry scrubbed at his face, trying to scrub these thoughts out of his head at the same time. There was no use dwelling on such things. Pettigrew had not yet committed the betrayal for which Harry loathed him. If Harry took any steps to prevent his parents' death, he would be the villain.
"It's just hard," said Harry, toneless. "Am I… is it wrong to want to – stop him?"
"I don't think so," said Sirius. "You're a very good person, Harry, in an impossible place. There are temptations here. Merlin knows, I… I feel the same way, you know. It's our actions that matter."
"Right," Harry mumbled.
The problem was that he could not act very much, not unless he wished to break certain unspoken laws of time travel, or unravel existence. Harry could be neither good nor bad; he had to remain neutral. He had to leave as little impact on the 1970s as he reasonably could.
"Put it out of your head, Harry," Sirius advised. "I've found it's not worth dwelling on it."
HPHPHPHPHPHPHPHPHPHP
Three days later, it took nearly all his self-control not allow those impulses to return to his thoughts. It was not that Pettigrew did anything extraordinary. They were sat at the Gryffindor table; Harry did not offer much in the way of conversation. Ginny was off in the library, studying, after they'd spent their free period working on the solution to their Quidditch problem. No, she wasn't his companion. It was his father and his small crowd who sat near him, kidding each other, laughing about something or other, coddling Pettigrew, whose tone of voice never failed to irritate Harry.
"—and then he said—"
"Peter, get on with the story," Sirius groaned.
"Hush, mate, give him a chance," James said.
"Thanks, James," Pettigrew said in slavish tone.
Harry slapped his fork against his plate. How was he expected to endure much more of this?
"Well, he was really brave, wasn't he? Skinny stick like him going up against Wimbourne's beaters? He'll go far in the league, if this is his first showing." Pettigrew said, spreading his hands, as though he were an authority on both Quidditch and bravery. "We've all seen cowards… but this one wasn't one of them – I'd call him brave. The press hasn't said, but I bet he was in Gryffindor, y'know, on account of that sort of bravery."
The skin on the back of his neck crawled.
"And what would you know of it?" Harry snapped. "About bravery?"
Pettigrew's eyes widened, then he slanted a glance at first James on his right and Sirius on his left. Harry was suddenly so angry that his chest felt tight, squeezed by a band.
"Quite a bit more than you realize, obviously."
This was from James. Harry glared at him, too, but only for a moment: his father's hazel eyes were giving him a warning. A censorious sort of thunder gathered on his brow. For that long, taut moment, their gazes locked together. There was a line, Harry understood suddenly about his father, that he could not cross without facing James's wrath. Thin lips pressed together.
You don't know what I know, Harry thought fiercely.
They both looked away at the same time.
"Let's go," said James. "This cranky tosser is not fit for company."
The four pushed back from the table as one, Sirius leaving behind half his breakfast; he saw Harry staring, shook his head, grabbed a piece of toast from the platter, and followed behind. They all, Harry could not help but notice, surrounded Peter, placing him in the middle, either consciously or unconsciously surrounding him to protect him. They had done that with Ginny, he remembered. She had been the smallest; Harry had thought her the most vulnerable: now, he wasn't so sure. But he was sure that Pettigrew did not deserve a single bit of their protection.
Instead of letting out an inarticulate shout, Harry stared down at his plate. The angry words roiled in his belly, churning with the acid there.
He was not quite yet totally calm when something very odd happened: a speckled owl swooped down through the open window, dropped an envelope in his lap, and flapped away before Harry could do anything but gape at him. Who would be sending him mail in 1977? All thoughts of Pettigrew fled his mind. It wouldn't be Sirius: Sirius would use the mirrors they had. And Ginny would just knock on his door. Could it have been Dumbledore?
Harry tore open the envelope.
Inside, was not a letter, but rather a thick, porous bit of paper. It was small and square and caught on the envelope until Harry pried it out. It fell to the table with an audible thwap. Looking first to the left and then to the right, he flipped it over to reveal a drawing.
It was, in fact, an impossible drawing.
Done in ink, Harry saw the impression of a small boy sitting cross legged in his pajamas before a mirror: it was, in fact, a very familiar mirror and a very familiar boy.
Harry's grip tightened on the parchment. A quick glance to the left and to the right told him no one was noticing him, no one was watching him; in a crowded hall, he was nevertheless alone. Hunching his shoulders, he returned his full attention to the drawing of himself sitting before the Mirror of Erised. A ghost of the same bone-aching desire passed through him. The parchment trembled — and as it did, it began to change.
The boy stood. Writing appeared on the mirror, obscuring the faces within it. Nose almost touching it, Harry saw the words and pictures form: a wall covered in graffiti that grew brighter the more Harry looked at it until it burst into flames; the flames twisted together to form the name Dorcas Meadows; that, too, shifted to a clock whose small hand pointed to the word tomorrow, located in the twelve position, and the long hand pointed to the word morning, located in the three position.
Harry allowed shock to wash over him for a moment or two. Then, as though the recipient of a stinging hex, he scrambled from his seat and sprinted toward the doors.
Thirty minutes later, he, Ginny, Sirius, and Dumbledore were seated in his office.
"—don't know why she contacted him instead of me," said Sirius; there was a look of guilelessness on his face that Harry hoped Dumbledore did not know was carefully crafted. "Perhaps she doesn't like our family connection."
Behind his desk, Dumbledore scrutinized the parchment.
Harry sagged in his seat.
Ginny cleared her throat. "Do we know it's her, Professor?" she asked politely.
"Indeed, yes," Dumbledore murmured. "It is wise to be cautious, Miss Peverell." He insisted on calling them by their aliases at all times. Harry was nearly used to it, but he knew Ginny wasn't, given the way she grimaced. "However, I know her magical signature." He tapped the parchment. "This is hers."
"D'you know where she wants us to meet?" Harry asked.
Dumbledore paused a moment, then nodded. "It is… a safe place," he said, very carefully. His fingers drummed on the parchment. "It's not what I would have chosen."
Harry looked at Ginny out the corner of his eye.
Dumbledore was staring at each of them in turn. "A secret is best kept by as few as possible," he murmured. He continued on in silence, a silence that lasted so long that the small noises of his office grew louder: Fawkes snuffling on his perch, the snores from the portraits, the shushed whir of one of the silvery instruments upon his desk. "Very well," he said at last. "I suppose I will have to trust Dorcas knows what she is doing."
"You know where we're going, right?" Harry whispered to Ginny, once they'd left Dumbledore's office.
Her eyes were wide and bright, a tiny smile lifting the corners of her mouth. For where else was a safe enough place for a friend of Dumbledore's, a woman who had been hounded by Grindelwald and his followers, other than the headquarters of the 1970s version of the Order of the Phoenix?
HPHPHPHPHPHPHPHPHPHP
Harry was expecting the suspected headquarters of the Order of the Phoenix to be, as last time, located in a heavily protected residence. Perhaps a witch or wizard had vacated the lot and Dumbledore had swooped in. Perhaps another member of the Order of the Phoenix had the same sort of family history as Sirius did. In fact, he had not at all stretched his imagination in order to wonder at all where Dorcas Meadowes had consented to meet them.
This was why he found himself standing on a rainy street corner in Muggle London, watching, dumbfounded, as Dumbledore led the way into the London Underground. None of them had made any effort whatsoever to dress in Muggle fashion, such as it was in the 1970s. At first, even seasoned Londoners gaped at them, especially Dumbledore, in his plum robes and spangled hat.
"Little late for Halloween, innit?" someone shouted.
"In fact, I find if one is imaginative enough, every day is Halloween," Dumbledore said affably. But then he muttered something Harry was just barely able to hear above the background noise of train and passengers howling in the underground. After that, gazes slid right over them. Harry, in his school robes, was not even noticed by a rather large American with a loud and flowered shirt and fanny pack about his middle.
"What did you do?" Harry asked. "What spell was that?"
At that, the American looked over, brow furrowed.
"Cautious, Harry," Sirius said. "In fact…" His wand was drawn. "Muffliato."
"And what spell was that?" Dumbledore asked, looking over his shoulder.
"It prevents eavesdropping," Sirius said pleasantly. "All anyone hears is a faint, shushing sound. No one will hear even that over all this noise."
"Excellent," said Dumbledore said with a tight little nod. "Is it your own invention?"
"No," said Sirius. When Harry looked at him, he pointed at his chest and mouthed '… and your dad'.
Harry hid a grin.
Behind him, Ginny cleared her throat.
Harry tossed a glance back at her, quirking his eyebrow, and jerking his chin. She clopped down a few stairs at a faster clip while he hesitated. Then, they were marching down the stairs in step. "Did you catch that?" he said in a low voice. "Muffliato? Might be useful at school."
"Whatever Mr. Black has done, I can still hear you," Dumbledore said cheerfully.
"I just meant with other professors," Harry said, unrepentant. "The ones who don't… you know."
"Indeed, I do," said Dumbledore. "Though I would caution against being too reliant on charms such as these. For every charm, there is a counter. Each will have its own weakness."
"Like the Fidelias?" Harry asked in a hard voice.
This time, Dumbledore halted, turning to him. Tourists and Londoners alike streamed around them, ignoring the sight of the four of them, sliding past them as though they were inanimate objects not worth a first glance, let alone a second. "Goodness me," he said, "what a rather esoteric charm to mention."
A flush crawled up the back of his neck. "I just, uh," said Harry.
"In fact," Dumbledore said, still affable, but blue gaze piercing, "the Fidelias is a prime example of a charm with a weakness that would render it meaningless. It is only as powerful as someone's loyalty to someone else's secret. As one can imagine, it's fallen out of use."
Harry mumbled something under his breath. It was, he had to admit, seeing Pettigrew so much that had brought that so swiftly to mind when Dumbledore mentioned the inherent weakness of charms. They all began walking again, Harry looking to the left, at the blank wall beside them, avoiding looking at both Ginny and Sirius. No wonder Sirius could not seem to bring himself to stay at Hogwarts, and why he so often stayed away. It had worn on him, these last two months, getting to know both his parents and the boy who had so callously betrayed them.
They were at the platform, then. Harry stood in silence, feeling curiously out of place among everyone else, who seemed to be making as much noise as they could, simply for the joy of it. Even Sirius, Ginny, and Dumbledore were speaking amongst themselves. He found himself wandering away from them – not far, just far enough that they were not all standing on each other's robes. It was there he heard, under a blanket of noise, a susurrus of sound unlike anything else. Craning his neck, he looked for the origin, eyes sweeping from one side of the Underground to the other.
There was a woman sitting in front of an easel just off the platform. There was a bag lady look to her, completed by the trolley in front of her filled with bags of art supplies and a grumpy-looking, squashed-faced cat. Before her stood a tall, bewildered looking man.
"But there's nothing on here," a tourist complained. "I gave you that quid for nothing!"
"And that's exactly what you get," said the woman, sounding distinctly dotty, "nothing!"
The tourist hurried off. Then, the woman looked at him and winked, as though they were sharing a joke. "Come here," she said, "I'll draw one for you, too."
"You'll draw me nothing?" Harry asked. Still, he moved forward. He saw now that she held neither pen nor paintbrush, pencil nor crayon. In fact, it was a quill in her hands. He narrowed his gaze at it. The feathering on the end was more and more ornate the longer he looked at it. It was either dyed, or it had come from a most unusual bird: it had the ripples and complexity of a phoenix feather, but it was entirely black and white.
"I've a feel it won't be nothing for you," she said.
He was drawn further forward. That quill… had he seen anything like that before?
"Just let me do my work," she told him.
"I have to—"
But the quill was set to paper, moving almost impossibly fast. Harry's heart thumped in his chest: as he'd got closer, he could hear something besides the footsteps, the shouts, and the echoes of the London Underground. Was that what had drawn him forward? He could hear whispering; and he was certain it was coming from that quill. Hadn't the veil whispered such as this? He'd heard voices then, too.
"You hear it, don't you?"
Harry shook his head. Then he nodded. "I have to go back—"
"Why would you do that?" The woman smiled at him, revealing impossibly white teeth. "I've a picture for you." She was not even looking at the paper; the quill, it seemed, was guiding her.
"I don't think I—"
"Ah, Mr. Peverell," said Dumbledore, clapping his hand on Harry's shoulder. "I see you have met Ms. Dorcas Meadowes?" There was good humor in his tone. "You are not at all where you said you would be."
"I wished a look before we met," she said. "A Peverell, you said?"
"You're Dorcas Meadowes?" Harry asked in disbelief.
"Yes," she said. Sarcasm crept into her tone. "The renowned artist. But you know that?"
"I didn't know," said Harry.
"It's not much of a surprise you're an artist," said Ginny, saving him. "Not if you're drawing pictures for Muggles."
"And wizardkind," Meadowes said cheerily. "You've no idea how many of our sort ride the Underground just for fun."
A loud WHOOSH interrupted the conversation. Nothing could be heard over the hiss of breaks as the next train pulled in and stopped, expelling its passengers with an efficient eagerness. They were shunted along with the other passengers, no one noting Dorcas Meadowes's trolley, not even the security guard who told off an American couple for having much too large a pile of luggage. Instead, the crowd spun away from it as it was pushed along. They took up a little corner on the third car, huddled near the door, all of them holding on to the rings hanging down from above except Ginny, who gripped a pole. No one spoke.
The train stopped and started again. People came and went. The lights gave warning each time, as did a disembodied voice, speaking every few seconds. Except, at the very end, when the train stopped without the lights brightening, and the disembodied voice had not announced it. Harry looked around: No one had reacted to the ceasing of movement. When the doors slid open, there was only darkness beyond.
"Your tickets," said Dumbledore cordially, passing around downy phoenix feathers. "Mind you keep them out."
They filed out of the door; Harry once more had the feeling that the other passengers could neither see nor hear them. The wheel of Dorcas's trolley slid right over a woman's foot, and she did not look up from her copy of Lysistrata. Seconds later, they were on a darkened platform, and the train was whooshing away.
"You know, I've wondered why you chose this place, Albus," Dorcas said, unperturbed by the dark. "Light the torches, would you? I've a drawing to finish." The cat in her trolley mrowled. "And Mr. Gaddykins needs a treat." The cat mrowled again, sounding satisfied.
Nodding slightly, Dumbledore withdrew from his robes what looked like a cigarette lighter. He flicked it; light flowed from it to the lights along the wall, illuminating the space they were in.
"Whoa," said Ginny, echoing Harry's own thought.
A handsome sitting area was revealed under the buttery new light: fully stuffed plaid armchairs were arranged in a semicircle. It might have belonged in some lord's manor house, but for the graffiti-covered concrete walls that surrounded it. Still, it was grand enough the wood of the coffee table was heavy and intricately carved, and the tea service sat upon it was pure silver, if Harry had a guess.
"If we may all take a seat," said Dumbledore, gesturing them forward.
Harry picked a chair and flung himself into it. As the others settled, he watched Dorcas, who still had an air of dottiness, no matter how efficiently she was unpacking all of her bags situated in the trolley. Perhaps it was the scarf trailing upon the ground, the trenchcoat she wore, or the fact she wore a flowery nightgown underneath it. He could not tell if she'd been attempting to dress as did the Muggles, or if this was her regular uniform. He pictured a tidy row of books upon a shelf, and had a difficult time reconciling this woman with the author much-admired by Old Bones.
"You wished to meet here," said Dumbledore, waving his wand, and orchestrating the tea service before them to pour them cups of tea.
"I did, yes," said Dorcas, nodding. "The quill has been active of late; I needed a safe place in which to show you what its activities have been."
"What do you mean – its activities?" asked Ginny, sounding as bewildered as Harry felt.
"This is no ordinary quill," said Dorcas, stroking the feather. The different shades of grey rippled, appearing like water. Harry leaned forward, to get a better look. "It has a mind of its own, I think. It's nearly as independent as a wand."
"Did you make it?" Harry asked.
"No," she said. "Not I. It was passed down to me… I was granted guardianship of it. It is partly why…"
But her voice trailed off into silence.
Dumbledore cleared his throat.
"But its activities… It has shown me you, again and again," said Dorcas, peering at Harry. "You look just as I thought you would." Her gaze went to Ginny. "And you as well." Then, looking at Sirius, she added: "And you…"
"But how does it—"
"Show me these things?" asked Dorcas. "There was a small society two hundred or so years ago who collaborated with one another to create articles that — as they hoped — blended the deepest of magics together," said Dorcas. Her voice had deepened; her eyes found a point in the darkness and stared there. "They were obsessed with the deathly hallows—"
"The what?" Harry interjected.
"Three objects of immense power," said Sirius.
"But"—Harry looked from one to the other—"my — er, I heard a story about them on Halloween… they said it was a fairy tale?"
"Yes, it is, a very popular one," said Dumbledore.
"But how can it be—?"
"True?" Sirius asked. "Well—"
"Whether true or not, this society believed it to be real. A founding member was a Peverell, after all." At Harry's further surprise, Dorcas made a circling gesture with her hand. "The three brothers who supposedly met Death were Peverells. Mad, the lot of them. And… very powerful. This society created objects that could reveal hidden secrets of the greater mysteries: death, the future, desire, time…" She brandished her quill. "My grandmother was part of it, I inherited this from her."
"Was she… dark?" Ginny asked, tentative.
Dorcas blinked and looked at her. "No," she said. "No… these aren't inherently dark objects…"
"How could they not be?" Harry asked, exasperated. Energy coiled into a knot in his belly. "Dragging three people backward in time is hardly — hardly, well, good. Look at those hallows: two of three were bad, weren't they?"
"Many tools can be used for good or evil," Dumbledore said quietly, steepling his fingers.
"But something has dragged us here," said Harry. His voice echoed oddly off the concrete of walls of the London Underground. "You don't understand—"
"They couldn't," murmured Ginny.
Dorcas smoothed her untidy robes; it was a futile gesture. The moment she moved, they bunched up again. Mr. Gaddykins mrowled. The abandoned platform was silent, but for a quiet hiss coming from the tracks. There was a small victrola beside the cat. Its needle fell on nothing, but a staticky, crackly sound emerged anyway. He thought he heard a faint laugh, but he might have imagined it. When his eyes left the victrola, he found Dorcas staring at him.
"As it happens, I know a bit of feeling not in control of one's own destiny," she said, as soon as he looked up. "And you, my dear," she said, warmly, addressing Ginny. "Your impatience is understandable. I have not stood where you are, it is true. But I have learned the same hard lessons."
"And what are those?" Sirius put in.
"I'm not trying to be impatient," Ginny muttered.
There was another whispered laugh from the victrola, and then, a snatch of a conversation: "—is. At—"
"We don't have much time," Dorcas muttered to Mr. Gaddykins. "As for how I know… I have received prophecy; I know that it cannot be changed, no matter how hard one tries."
"But that's what we're trying not to do," said Sirius, waving his arm around the platform. "We don't want to risk changing anything essential to the existence—"
"You can't," said Dorcas. The blunt words stopped Sirius mid-sentence.
"But from what I've been told about time travel—"
"You cannot change the future," said Dorcas, drumming her fingers on the trolley. A loud pop came from the victrola, startling everyone but her and Dumbledore. Mr. Gaddykins yowled.
Ginny leaned toward her. In the gloom of the Underground, her hair had the warmth of a fire. "But how can we not?" she asked. "Surely we'll affect something."
"You might," said Dorcas. "And I'm not saying that things could not have subtle changes. Of course they could. Prophets are not powerless to act, which is why we are so valued – and hunted. People do what they may with our warnings; people can prepare."
"Like the frogs," Harry muttered to himself.
"Hmm?" Dorcas asked.
"We've done a bit of an almanac"—Harry glanced at Dumbledore, who raised his white brows—"based on a song of frogs, and knew when it was to start in on the autumn storms… but, anyway, we didn't change the storms—"
"—you just knew when they were to happen, and you could prepare," said Dorcas.
"Yeah," said Harry, "exactly." Once more, he realized he had learned more from Old Bones in three months than he had in three years of classes with Professor Trelawney.
"And your presence in the past can warn of the future," said Dorcas.
"But," said Ginny, frustrated, "that means that we can't prevent anything?"
"I mean," said Dorcas, unblinking, "that whenever you go, there you are. You cannot unmake yourself. Therefore, you cannot change so much that all of existence is unwritten."
As one, Ginny and Sirius turned to him. Harry could feel the weight of their gazes pressing down on him. For a fleeting moment, he missed Ron and Hermione with a sharp ache gone through his stomach. He would've known exactly what they were thinking; Ginny and Sirius were unreadable to him. Pressing himself back in the chair that belonged in a manor house, he shook his head at them, though he was not sure what, exactly, he was conveying to them.
They both looked away.
"Whenever you go," mused Dumbledore, "there you are. Clever turn, Dorcas."
"Cheers," said Dorcas. The needle on the victrola jumped. "—prepared and—" Harry heard, nearly hidden under the static. "—leave—" the same voice added.
"What is that?" he asked, gesturing.
"The sound of my enemies, marshalling themselves to come find me," said Dorcas, complacent. She blinked at him, and tucked a wavy tendril of grey hair behind her ear, making her look oddly young. "I've had warnings and warnings, of course," she said, waving her hand. "From both the future and from my own present investigations. Not all of Grindelwald's supporters were imprisoned with him in Nurmengard, of course – impractical to arrest everyone. They'll hunt for me."
"If you would but allow me to protect you," began Dumbledore.
"The only other way for me and mine to remain alive is for me to entrust myself and my niece and my cat to someone else, and have them hide us under the Fidelias," said Dorcas. For the first time, she sounded angry. "And I do not trust anyone that much, my old friend. Not even you."
Dumbledore conceded with a nod.
"The Fidelias," said Harry, "is not infallible." This earned a sharp glance from Dumbledore.
"How much," asked Sirius, who had clearly not been paying attention to the conversation, "can we give warning?" He looked around. The gloom played with his face, giving it a carved look. "All this 'whenever you go, there you are' stuff is all good, but how much can I – we – give warning without potential disaster?"
Harry gulped back blurting out everything he knew of the future.
"I think you will have to decide that on your own."
Sirius dragged his hand through his snarled hair. He tugged it hard enough Harry saw his head jerk. There were possibilities swirling around them. His secrets, the ones he demanded Ginny keep, were close to being blurted out. In fact, Harry's shoulders slumped with the weight of Dumbledore's stare.
"Stop—"
But Harry's angry demand that Dumbledore stop what he was doing was interrupted.
Down in the tunnel, a light flashed.
Harry, Ginny, and Sirius all stood at once. The ridges on his wand bit into his skin. The light was not steady as that of a train surging toward them: it bobbed and flickered and was soon accompanied by the distant echo of voices, more than one. Another light was added to the first.
"Easy," said Dumbledore, who had risen.
"Friends or foes?" Sirius tossed over his shoulder.
"Most like to be friends," said Dumbledore.
"I knew our meeting would be interrupted," said Dorcas, who, for someone others largely revered as paranoid beyond measure, was calm. Gnarled fingers stroked her cat. "It will not end in a fight," she added. "And besides," she glanced at her victrola, "my enemies are not nearly so close yet."
Harry noticed both Ginny and Sirius glance at him. He kept his wand drawn, pointed toward the opening to the tunnel where in moments their uninvited guests would be arriving. Neither of them lowered their wands. The back of Harry's neck itched: Dumbledore was eyeing him again.
But he had no time to worry over that. Two figures emerged, both dressed in long, billowy robes. Both were older, one in late middle age, the other slightly younger. One had a stump that thwapped against the concrete with every step. Both stopped short to find themselves with company.
"Ah," said Dumbledore. "Alastor. Frank. I did not know I would find you two here today."
Moody did not move his gaze from Harry, Sirius, and Ginny. "Dumbledore," he grunted. "I didn't know you'd held auditions at Hogwarts for more members of the Order."
Harry lowered his wand and tucked it out of sight.
"It's a complex matter," said Dumbledore in a tone that did not invite questions.
"Always is," said the other man.
Curious, Harry looked at him. Frank. This must be Frank Longbottom, who would father Neville at some point in the next few years. He was older: his face was lined and there were threads of silver in his hair. But there was a sharp intelligence in his brown eyes, which did not leave Sirius's face but once, to flick over both Harry and Ginny with little interest.
"You're familiar to me," said Frank.
Sirius shrugged. "I have been told I have one of those faces."
"I don't think that's quite right."
"These four are my guests," Dumbledore cut in.
"Four?" Moody demanded, stumping closer. "I — Dorcas?"
From her chair, Dorcas tossed him a merry wave. "I have something for you," she announced. She shifted her cat to the side, and rummaged in her shopping trolley. The victrola squawked as it was shuffled about. There was a thud; a hollow, reverberating sort of thud, like the footstep of a large creature. Dorcas's hands stilled.
"But — how…" Moody was spluttering. "You haven't been seen in years! Why are you here? Here now?"
"There was a matter needed seeing to," said Dorcas. She rummaged further into the trolley, brow furrowing. "I've got it… I know put it in here… I knew I'd be seeing you. Blast! You'll have need of it before too long." She looked up, eyes unfocused. "Did I leave it in the ice box?" Giving her head a shake, she continued to mutter. "Mr. Gaddykins, you ought to have reminded me of it…"
"What brings you two down here?" Sirius asked.
Frank and Moody exchanged a glance.
"We've had a spot of trouble in the Auror offices," Moody admitted. "Damn them."
"And it's no wonder the ICW won't trust us," Frank said. "We haven't got a leak so much as a flood. They know everything before we even do it—"
"—and Frank is just about the only one in the office that I trust isn't the one selling us out to the Death Eaters," said Moody. Red splotches had appeared on his face. "We can't even get permission to search Nurmengard – the liaison interrogates me—"
Dumbledore cleared his throat, and gave his head an imperceptible shake. "These people are guests—"
Sirius gave a great bark of laughter.
"—not fully members of… our association," Dumbledore finished delicately.
"You brought 'em here, but you don't trust 'em?" Moody asked, scowling.
"It is a delicate matter." Again, Dumbledore's tone did not invite questions.
"Tell me more about Nurmengard." The air of dottiness that had surrounded Dorcas as she searched her trolley had dissipated. There was sharp attention in her tone.
Silence followed her demand: it was a weighty, loud thing. Harry felt questions and misgivings whisper around him, coiling around his robes. Instead of giving in to it, he mimicked Ginny's tranquil look, folding his hands.
"It happened while you were on your sabbatical," said Frank, gesturing a little. "Any insight you have, Ms. Meadowes, would be welcome. But we heard tell from our Austrian friend that someone had snuck into Nurmengard and stolen an object."
"As we have our own look-outs, we've got a good guess that it was Regulus Black."
Regulus? That was Sirius's brother, wasn't it? The one who died trying to back out of Voldemort's service. Sirius rarely spoke of him, merely to say that he was much older and considered his parents's golden child: Slytherin, bold, and properly mindful of his pureblood status. Harry had not thought much of him, but found himself surprised that Regulus was so deep into it that he was carrying out international missions: if, in fact, he'd been there on behalf of Voldemort.
"Pardon me," Harry asked, "but what is Nurmengard, exactly?" Dorcas had mentioned it earlier, but he still didn't know what it was. He'd supposed it a type of prison, but why would it hold magical artifacts along with prisoners?
Both Frank and Moody cut a look at him.
Harry refused to apologize.
"Grindelwald's stronghold," Moody said gruffly. "It's now his prison… he's kept in the highest tower."
"Grindelwald was a collector," Dorcas said. There was a fresh canvas on her easel. Her quill moved back and forth in a tick-tock motion. "Nurmengard still houses that which he collected in his lifetime… he hunted my family down and slaughtered them in an attempt to collect that which was passed down to me from my grandmother. He had many treasures there… did you find out what it was Regulus Black stole?"
"No," said Frank. "They won't trust us."
"As soon as we root out one supporter," Moody added, then spat on the floor, "we've got three more taking his place."
"It does seem he has a particular hold, doesn't he?" Dumbledore murmured.
Harry knew him well enough that the older wizard was distracted: his thoughts were miles elsewhere. Dumbledore might have flown to Nurmengard, leaving his body behind.
"Have you got a list of what he had in his collection?" Sirius asked.
"In a manner of speaking," said Frank. "But—"
"—it's been redacted so much it's hard to tell if it's real, and some additions have been made to it," said Moody. "Grindelwald always drew stories about him: half the things they said he did never happened. So I'm not like to believe that Grindelwald had a mirror that would show a man his heart's deepest desire—"
"The Mirror of Erised?" Harry asked, without thinking. "Grindelwald has the Mirror of Erised?"
Moody's mouth fell slightly open. "I suppose that's what they call that in the stories," he allowed.
Harry kept quiet, already kicking himself for having let that blurt out of his mouth. But the Mirror of Erised! He had never thought of it much – it seemed natural for Dumbledore to have ownership of many fantastical things. There had been no thought in his mind as to its origin. He slumped back further in his chair. Floating in his mind's eye was the drawing Dorcas had sent to him: himself, sitting in front of the mirror, seeing the vague, shadowy figures of the family he was only now able to know because he had been sent nearly twenty years into the past.
"They are not all stories," said Dumbledore. Then, suddenly, he was focused and intent. "I will endeavor to find a list – an unredacted list – of that which Grindelwald collected. Will that suit?"
"Oh, yes," said Frank. "It'll certainly give us a bit more to go on… It's been months, of course, and we haven't seen anything dramatic happen, so it must not be too dangerous or splashy, but still. We'd quite like to put the matter to bed… to know what we're dealing with."
"Be a boon for us," agreed Moody. "And damned if I'll bring it to the office… not unless we want You Know Who to know immediately."
"As to that… I'm afraid I'm not much help," said Dorcas. She was done with her drawing and presented it to them. Harry squinted at it. Once more, he was impressed at how much one color ink could convey. He was looking at an office, one filled with many different objects, some of which – like sneakoscopes – he recognized, and some he didn't. The room was empty of people, but…
Harry leaned forward in his chair.
"Ah, Dorcas, thank you for trying," said Frank. "Damned if I can believe we aren't looking for something, though—"
"My art isn't infallible," said Dorcas. "But it would be nice if it gave a clear answer every once in a while."
"I'll take it and frame it anyway—"
"Wait," said Harry. "I see – look! In the mirror?" He was squinting as hard as he could, and he thought he was right. There, in the large mirror behind the desk, was a very faint, very blurry shadow. As he watched, it came into focus a bit more, revealing a feminine silhouette. "I think I – it's there, in the mirror."
"Not a mirror," said Moody, who was now bending so close to the canvas that his nose near pressed against it. "It's one of my own dark detectors… a foe glass… by Merlin, I think he's right!"
"Extraordinary," said Dumbledore.
Frank and Moody muttered to one another, each taking it in turn to pass it back and forth.
Mr. Gaddykins yowled again, just as the static coming from the victrola cut off swiftly and completely. Dorcas froze. Harry found himself holding his breath; he only let it out in a whoosh when, from the victrola, came the clear, concise sound of a footstep.
"Come here," she said, spinning toward him, and gesturing him to come closer. "Come here."
Harry obeyed, hurrying over to her, moving much faster than whatever it was that was coming from the victrola.
Dorcas took his hand in both of hers. Her head was cocked to one side. And when she spoke, it was in a whisper no louder than a sigh. "Remember," she said, "you cannot change so much of the past or the future that you change who you are." His hand was squeezed tightly. "Nor can you change who they are. You cannot unravel the fabric of the universe, Mr. Peverell. Find comfort in that." A small smile transformed her wrinkled face. "Find hope."
Then, her hands slipped away from his.
"Erm," said Harry.
The footsteps coming from the victrola were pounding now.
"And now, I've got my train to catch," she announced, at normal volume. "It has been a pleasure, being around humans. But the footsteps of my old enemies are growing loud, and my train has come."
A loud, blaring horn echoed from down the tunnel.
Dorcas pushed her trolley to just beside the tracks. Then, tossing them a wave, she said. "I know I'll see you again – most of you. Moody, I'll send you your eye by post… I can't believe I forgot it!"
"My eye?" Moody said astonished, touching his face where his own two eyes sat firmly in their sockets.
Beside him, Ginny snorted.
The train came rushing by with a roar of wind. It did not slow, but ignored the deserted platform: Harry expected that the conductor had not seen it. Probably it was not listed anywhere on any map. With one last wave, Dorcas pushed her trolley right into the side of the train. Part of Harry flinched: there, inside him, was still that small boy that did not know magic existed. But Dorcas suffered no such ending as would have been inevitable for a Muggle walking into a train. Instead, she disappeared, trolley and Mr. Gaddykins and all.
Where she'd stood, a bit of paper fluttered down. Dumbledore stooped to pick it up, face inscrutable, and pocketed it without offering to show it to anyone.
Very little had been discovered, and yet… Harry felt oddly invigorated, feeling as though he'd just sat through a meeting of the Order of the Phoenix, finally having been deemed old enough to do so.
HPHPHPHPHPHPHPHPHPHP
"I'm going to go bathe," announced Ginny, as soon as they returned to Hogwarts. "I don't fancy the smell of unwashed people."
Harry had to admit that the London Underground had smelled fairly terrible. "Go enjoy," he offered. "I'll see you at dinner?"
She nodded and left. Sirius clapped his hand on his shoulder and steered him up the stairs. They were quiet as they walked. Harry's mind was too crowded with thoughts to pick just one and blurt out with it. Besides, even for a Saturday, there were far too many students lurking about indoors. He had a brief, convincing fantasy of running out onto the grounds, finding his mother and father, and blurting out everything. They would think him mad; he'd end up in St. Mungo's.
A cold sweat dripped down his back. Dumbledore had been remarkably silent through much of the day; Harry had the sense he was observing, weighing, and judging… and making calculations based on that judgement. As they approached the Room of Requirement, and paced, in unison, three times in front of it, Harry tried to calm his thoughts. He could not approach his parents to give them "warnings"… he had to be wise about it.
This bit, he mumbled out loud.
"I'll have you know I am plenty wise," said Sirius, with a wry grin.
"I know, but—"
"It's all just strange after what she told us," said Sirius, "the exact opposite of what we thought, yeah?"
Harry scratched at the back of his neck. "I just…" His head was whirling. "I don't…"
"Know what to think?"
"Yeah," said Harry, swallowing.
"Well… as I haven't a crown of wisdom…"
But — just then — a crown did appear, a battered old one that drooped on one of the sides, right upon the stand closest to Sirius. His godfather scoffed, grabbed it, whirled it around his finger so it swirled dizzyingly, then put it atop his head where it sat in his nest of uncombed hair.
Despite himself, Harry snorted. It was funny, seeing the fragile little tiara on Sirius's head. "You do make a beautiful princess, but—"
"It isn't for a princess," Sirius retorted, "it's a crown of wisdom." His face fell into serious lines. Azkaban's toll was stamped clearly on his ravaged face. "I know we both expected we'd be back before now… Merlin knows, I never expected to live through 1977 again… and it'll be even more difficult now I don't have…" His voice trailed away, his eyes went distant.
"Sirius?" Harry prompted, once it was quiet a minute or two.
"Oh… yes," he said. "I just think… we still need to be cautious."
"Of course," said Harry. "I was just thinking that… maybe make a plan? Be wise about it… there's a lot that could go wrong, isn't there?"
He expected Sirius to come out with a bit of reassurance; instead, Sirius muttered something about responsibility and opportunity, then fell silent again, brow furrowed, looking puzzled. This lasted a minute before he sighed, shook his head, and pressed the heels of his hands against his eyes. "I think I'm more tired than I thought," he admitted with a small laugh. "I feel like I haven't slept for three months… all that time, and she didn't even know what brought us here."
"It could be whatever it was that was stolen from Nurmengard," Harry pointed out.
"I suppose we'll have to go there next," Sirius said tiredly. The crown slipped down one side of his head, dropping to his ear. Harry smuggled away a smile; Sirius was so tired, he'd forgotten he had on a little scrap of a tiara. "Figure out what my brother was up to." He shook his head, disgusted. "Regulus was always a bit of a…"
Harry waited, patient, for Sirius to finish his thought. It never came. "I still can't believe the headquarters of the Order of the Phoenix is in the London Underground," said Harry, "though it makes sense, what with Dumbledore's scar and all."
"Too right it does," murmured Sirius.
Harry eyed him. "You ought to go get some rest," he suggested. He heaved himself up off the chair and toward the door of the Room of Requirement that would leave to the rest of the castle. He walked with lighter steps than he had all this strange term. He could not change things so much that he could write himself out of existence. Outside the room, he found himself at the windows, staring out over the grounds toward the lake and the forest. All of Hogwarts spread out before him, bright and as-yet free of the tragedies that would come later. He was beaming, then, smiling so hard that his face muscles hurt. They would figure it out, the three of them. He may not be able to run up to his parents and tell them everything, but he could offer a few warnings. It was possible that they could change enough that by the time they discovered the magical mechanism by which they were brought to the past, Harry could have attained a brighter future.
He was no longer bound to make as little impact as possible in fear that he would write himself out of existence.
Harry could act.