The Flying Express

Out of Darkness… the eternal blackness… there was a blinding flash of light – and he saw… an edge.

A precipice. Rising, rising, breaching through the dark.

But it must have been a really powerful wizard, to drive all those Dementors away… If the Patronus was shinning so brightly, didn't it light him up? Couldn't you see?

Did you see? Harry! Can you see?

Yes, Hermione. Yes he did. Of course he did. He saw. He saw that it was his father…

…it was him. And he was dead…

But how could that be? It couldn't be, and that meant…

Don't go down there, Harry… the darkness is heavy, and pulled apart the seams of time ages ago – do not brave the dark

And whatever you do, boy, if nothing else, don't enter the dark. Die before you do! Please, just accept defeat and die… for your own sake!

There's a darkness in your eyes, boy!

"HOW COULD YOU DO THAT TO YOURSELF?"

He heard voices in that eternal darkness – familiar voices – wrought upon the fabric of reality itself with a presence so heavy it yanked at lightning and stretched time – like a fucking black hole.

Born in the vortex, the very heart, of a duel fought long, long ago, there stood another… similar yet different, like the two sides of a coin.

And then it hit him – he understood. He hadn't seen his father – he had seen himself

Lives passed and echoed across each other in a never-ending stream of muddled years of bygone times. Like everything had at long last unravelled and all and everything happened and died all at once. Past, future and present all collapsing simultaneously in on each other in a big fucked up bundle of misfortune.

One last scream from a dying universe.

What was this? What life was this? When was this life?

When…

What?

Fucking what!

You're just a boy – just a lonely little boy – how can you bear it?

HE'S JUST A FUCKING BOY!

That boy is our last hope

Albus… look at his eyes… by Merlin… it's been lifetimes since he was a boy, hasn't it?

Harry flung himself out from behind the bush and pulled out his wand

Maybe… Arthur… maybe he's – the last and true Lord of

Lord of what? A Lord? HA! He could barely make sense of his own damn head!

The storm in his mind stilled, and he found himself thrust in front of the slithering curtain of darkness, the veil, the beginning and end of all.

Death… is merely the beginning, Harry…

He shouldn't touch it, shouldn't want it, and yet Harry found himself reaching into the darkness that had claimed Sirius Black decades past – his hand vanished through the Veil, and a cold, fierce sensation, like rushing, icy water, flowed through his veins.

And the voices, slithering in the dark, sang his doom in flight – with relish – as they grew strong and unending and inescapable to his ears.

And Harry shook his head, confused, because who the fuck was Sirius Black?

And then the veil was gone, the slithering voices no more, and the storm of awry memory once more upon him.

EXPECTO PATRONUM!

A flash, like lightning, of brilliant, white light rendered the darkness of the night powerless and stole away the dreary, dank submissive allure of the muddy swarms of Dementors. And Harry Potter – always and forever Harry Potter – braved onwards, once more for all against the darkness that split the night never-ending

All of a sudden, the mad rushing winds of time and memory died and, confused and frightened, Harry found himself alone in front of the Veil. At end's end. Steadying himself, breathing in the icy air, acting with instincts he'd never possessed, he touched the darkness…

And unravelled the world.

And then Harry Potter, laid bare at dream's end, awoke with a stifled scream, mind at a fractured edge of breakage – and knew with the weary certainty of a boy who had done the deed a thousand times before that he was now capable of the Patronus Charm. That he had mastered another branch of magic lost to most wizards. Mastered it through a dream, siphoned upon his mind through the dreadful whispers of the long ago forgotten…

The Never-had-been…

And somewhere in the back of his mind, the voices of pasts never-been sang his doom in flight once more in the cover of night. And the voices told him that, on the contrary, he hadn't just mastered it…

He had been capable of it his entire life.

He just forgot.

Sleep that night, as most nights that summer after his first year at Hogwarts, did not find Harry Potter a willing victim.


Hours later and still hours too early to get on with the day found Harry restlessly tapping his fingers against the desk. The mansion was quiet, asleep, and he found it almost impossible to contain all that he had inside him.

Today was the day, after all.

Today was the day.

Dumbledore, sometime after the break of light, would arrive and sweep them all away to the ICW in Paris – or some city within Paris. Nobody had really seemed keen to explain the what's or the where's or the how's of the city of the ICW, Liberalia.

Harry, Ron and the entire Greengrass family would be going by train in the afternoon and were scheduled to arrive sometime early evening.

Currently, Harry occupied one of the guestrooms of the immense Greengrass mansion. Daphne, upon Harry and Ron's arrival a couple of days ago, had seemed embarrassed by the almost exuberant expression of wealth the mansion presented, especially coupled with Ron's openly awed countenance the first couple of hours.

Grand halls were laden with vast ceilings from which there hung spectacular golden-laced chandeliers or old bronze crowns of sorts. Immaculate, great oak tables, polished to a mirror-sheen by hard-working House-elves, filled the great open floors. Hallways stretched all round the house, giving Harry a melancholic yearning to be back in the embrace of Hogwarts once more.

It was an estate as old as the grounds on which it stood, it seemed, and had belonged to the Greengrass family for generations.

Only one more month, thought Harry, as he so often did. One more month and then we're back at Hogwarts.

After a while of mindlessly staring into space, trying at once to hold onto the dream and to let it go and be rid of it once and for all, he went down the hall towards the kitchen and out the backdoor, out onto the porch overlooking the towering hills and the grassy fields that stretched across a summer morning. The first rays of the sun were beginning to burn through the darkness, touching the sky with a burst of orange hue. It caressed the world around him softly, and oh what a world it was.

He sat down on one of the rocky chairs and looked out over the hills, tumbling and crisscrossing away, contemplating the last couple of days. Dumbledore had picked him up in the morning at Privet Drive, out of the blue, scooped him along to a place called the Burrow, a rickety little thing wherein the Weasley's lived, from where Ron had tagged on, and finally they wound up here.

It was all brand new and exciting. Apparition. The Burrow. The Weasley family. All things on their own enough to make a young boy's head spin…

And none of it had seemed foreign. He had barely been afforded a glimpse at the Burrow, at the family that resided there, and strangely he'd already felt like he belonged. He told himself that it must have been Mrs Weasley's obvious kindness, that the glint in her eye was enough to put any boy at ease. He told himself that he had heard so much over the past year from Ron about his family that even though he'd never actually met most of them, they'd seem familiar.

And yet… this went beyond that.

"You're too young to be frowning like that, my boy."

"And you're too old to be sneaking up on me like that," Harry replied, trying to contain the sudden rush of adrenaline. He turned his head and looked up into the wrinkled, jovial face of Albus Dumbledore. "Hello Professor."

"Hello Harry." Dumbledore wore a delicate smile as he sat down gingerly on a chair next to Harry. "Trouble sleeping again?"

Harry nodded. "Nightmare."

"The same?"

Harry frowned. "Not… exactly."

Dumbledore nodded. "But there about." He chuckled mildly. "You were extraordinary quick with your wand, you know that?"

"Huh?" Harry blinked and looked at his hand, tightly gripping the wand that Dumbledore had gifted him. When had he…?

"Not intentionally, I take it. Well, you posses marvellously developed survival instincts in that case. Though I must wonder if that is a thing to be marvelled at in a boy so young…"

"Sorry sir."

Dumbledore smiled. It was a touch sad and a touch shamed, but it carried a weight that Harry couldn't quite read. "Nonsense. You're the last who should apologize. The last…"

A silence settled over the twosome and together, young and old, weary yet vibrant, they watched as the sun rose on the sky and opened the hills to the eyes of life.

Dumbledore chuckled mildly some time later, breaking the silence, as his eyes traced across a field in the distance. "Do you know, Harry, what I will miss most about teaching?"

Harry smiled. "Hogwarts?"

"No – well in a way, I suppose…" Dumbledore stroked his beard and leaned back in his chair. Harry noted that it looked rather more comfortable and robust than at first glance when he'd stepped out onto the porch. "Hogwarts is a… timeless key into our world. Anyone who walks her halls is forever touched in some capacity… even those without magic can appreciate her grandeur… But no, I shall miss you, the children."

"Most of us are the worst thing about Hogwarts," said Harry, frowning.

"To you that is undoubtedly true, but you haven't experienced the melancholy of growing old enough to be passed your best years… and thus, sadly, cannot appreciate them fully." Dumbledore stroked his beard out and tucked it in his lap, sighing the sigh of the old and the lost. "It is an unfortunate truism of life that revelations are often brought to our attention in hindsight."

"I'm not sure–"

"Look out there, Harry." Dumbledore pointed out over the fields on which he had been looking at before. "Can you see her?"

"See who?"

"Look."

Harry squinted his eyes and followed Dumbledore's pointed finger, and then out of the tall grass, nearly at the very top of the mounting hill, a very little figure jumped out, a trail of some insect following her movements, and Harry heard her laughter, even from all the way back on the porch. For one single moment, a forgettable instant in time, she was as obvious and large as the rising sun itself… and then she fell and was gone, once more obscured by the tall grass.

"Astoria," whispered Harry, recognizing Daphne's younger sister. "Why's she up now?"

"Who knows?" said Dumbledore, voice whisper-thin and heavy all the same. "Maybe she, like you, were plagued with nightmares that made sleep impossible. No one could blame the poor girl if that was the case. She is, as I am sure you are aware, desperately ill, after all. Or maybe – and this is a thought I am very fond of – she has learned in her own way that life is pain and misery and the greatest gift of all… to be treasured at every opportunity, because it goes by so fast and is gone so sudden… Children like her… like you… who has known hardships all your lives and yet still… your eyes sparkle with life and wonder – you humble an old fool like me. With adulthood comes many responsibilities – and a grand responsibility is, I believe, life's greatest gift – but sometimes, oh Harry, sometimes I think we forget the joy of a quiet morning and the beauty of a rising sun… but who knows, eh?"

They beheld Astoria Greengrass as she raced across the planes and mounted the hill at last, trailed swiftly by the tangible buzz of a swarm of insects, standing like a beacon in the rays of the sun. And the insects danced around her and puled at her long, blonde hair, and she cried with laughter when they seemed to tickle her behind her ear. And all along the sun grew stronger as it mounted the horizon and regarded them with its might.

"Daphne is making Astoria's medicine," said Harry. "The Maladay Potion. Last batch today, she said." Harry paused, smiling, thinking of Daphne. "She's been hard at work to make them all before we go today."

"Quite." Dumbledore chuckled, and his eyes never strayed off Astoria. "It is an extraordinary family, wrought from extraordinary tragedy."

Harry nodded. He knew enough to know just how true those words were. "Sir?"

"Yes, Harry?"

"Have you - does Fudge now about Voldemort?" Harry glanced behind his back, as though fearful that the walls of the manor had ears – he thought he felt a pair of eyes on his neck for a second – then he leaned in and continued with a voice thin as paper, "Does he know we think Voldemort has returned?"

Dumbledore shook his head. "He knows only what I told him during the conversation you eavesdropped. He has begun the preparation I asked of him. Telling him more would only incite panic. Few people operate well in times of panic."

"But what do we do?"

"Nothing," replied Dumbledore. "For now, all we can do is wait and see just what Lord Voldemort plans next. You haven't been pained by the scar at all since we last spoke?"

"No, not at all."

"Strange. Tom never was a particular patient man."

"Sir?"

"I suppose a decade as merely a wraith lends a different perspective on time. Alas, Harry, for now, we have more important matters to attend than Voldemort."

Harry blinked. "We do?"

"But of course," said Dumbledore, smiling brightly. "After all, you still have four weeks of summer vacation left."

Morning passed and the rest of the house slowly crept alive. The day trod onwards painfully slow for Harry, who along with Ron had very little scheduled for the day.

That only left bothering Daphne as a viable option.

"Fancy a spot of flying before we go?" asked Ron, tearing his drowsy eyes away from the cauldron. "Oh, it's turning yellow now, Daphne."

"ITS TURNING YELLOW!" yelled Harry panicky. "Yellow, Daph! The potion's turning yellow!"

"Yeah, I have working eyes, too, you know."

"Then do something, woman!"

"Harry – it's supposed to turn yellow."

"Don't be daft, Daph–"

"Stop saying that!"

Harry blinked and sniffed at the potion. "It looks like it'd make you sick… Smells like it, to."

"Would you two…" Daphne sighed and stirred the contents of the cauldron in gentle figure eights. "Please, this is the last one – I don't wanna have to redo it. So please… just go. I'll join you in an hour."

Harry and Ron shared a look over Daphne's head.

"You know, I think vacation has changed her, mate," said Ron with a grave tone of voice. "Once we were all she cared for, but now?"

Harry nodded. "You can say that again. No time for her mates anymore. It's all just homework and–"

"Leave!"

"Leaving!" laughed Harry, as he followed Ron out speedily, closing the door to her room behind them. "I'll just grab my broom. Meet you outside in five."

Ron nodded and set off towards his own borrowed room. Harry hurried back to his own, but he didn't make it ten feet before dull, broken sounds of voices made him pause in the middle of the hallway.

He blinked, straining his hearing. He recognized one of the voices as Dumbledore's, the other…

Daphne's father.

Before he'd even thought it through he felt his feet shuffle him soundlessly towards the door standing ajar. A soft shaft of light crept through, sprawling out onto the darkened hallway and illuminating the specks of dust in the cool air. Harry hugged the wall and turned his head, letting his eye get caught in the light. He blinked once, twice, thrice against the light, before the small scene crept into focus.

"Talking to him like that, Albus… is that wise, you think?"

"I believe he would be bewildered if I treated him like a common child. Alas, I imagine he would find it quite insulting."

"Yes, but… life is pain?"

Dumbledore chuckled. "I don't believe that was all that was said between us. Far from it, in fact. And I do believe it to be true – as do you, Graham."

"I don't believe it, I know it… And yet…"

Harry could just about make out a ghost of a smile playing about behind the curtain of Dumbledore's beard. "And yet indeed…"

"The children will miss you, too, by the way."

"You really heard everything, didn't you?" Dumbledore laughed.

"Not the last part. You spoke too quietly. Thought Harry might have noticed me."

"Eavesdropping was never something the faculty associated with Hufflepuff, but you never were the exemplary Hufflepuff student, were you?" asked Dumbledore pleasantly.

Daphne's father shrugged. "Not many of us married a Slytherin in those days – if ever."

Dumbledore nodded. "Quite. I see a lot of you in Daphne, but–"

"You see even more of her mother, bless her soul. I know." He sighed and rubbed his eyes, seemingly trying to feint away old and troubled thoughts. "It used to be… worse? No, more. There was a time, Albus, after… her death where I think Daphne blamed herself. When the Potion could no longer hold her together…" Harry saw no tears in his eyes, nor did he hear the faintest whisper of it in his voice, and yet Harry knew he had cried an ocean over this in the past. "Daphne never got over it."

"You never do, Graham."

Graham Greengrass waved him away. "I know, I know. You only learn to live with it… But she was distant afterwards, aloof. No matter what I did, nothing changed. She was locked, frozen… It's never easy seeing your child, who you're supposed to protect, guilt-ridden and desperately depressed, let me tell you that!"

Dumbledore intertwined his fingers in his beard, looking intently at the other man. "She became obsessed with an idea."

Graham nodded. "Iris would often involve Daphne, letting her participate in the creation of the potion as often as possible. I didn't like it, but I think Iris wanted Daphne to remember her… remember her when she resembled her best. Afterwards, I think Daphne thought she could have done more. Should have done more, perhaps. So she threw herself into her studies, and when we learned that Astoria was… showing signs of the early stages… regular bouts of sickness, strange mishaps with her magic… Daphne couldn't accept that. True obsession… the likes of which I've never seen…"

"Nothing more terrifying… Nothing more understandable…" whispered Dumbledore, and there sat an extraordinary expression of solemn grief upon his face, coupled with some measure of fascination. Like an old enemy had reared its might to strike once more from the grave.

"But then she went to Hogwarts." Graham laughed and to Harry, through the gloom, it sounded honest and true, full of exuberance and light. "Where she met Harry Potter… never in a thousand years would I have thought that one person could change another so much."

"Harry does that from time to time."

"The stories she's told me, Albus. About him, about them… She – she's seen wonders because of that boy. Other worlds, fantastic beasts and where to find them – I can scarcely believe them all, but there's truth in her eyes, and her soul… it may not have mended completely, but it has been healed – somewhat."

"It may not be much light, but it beats the darkness…"

"Yes, suppose so. Suppose so…" The two men fell back in their seat and seemed to ponder upon a topic they both knew needed discussing. "Albus…"

"Graham."

"You know I think the world of you, but Liberalia is a fool's errand. You won't convince them, and it might be dangerous."

Dumbledore regarded Graham with a tilted head over his half-moon glasses, smiling slightly with a twinkle in his blue eyes. "I thought you had little taste for politics, Graham. Seems to me you keep you ears to the ground more than most of your colleagues."

"Iris transferred her seat to me, when she passed. Least I can do is give a damn about her family's legacy."

"Quite. And you are, of course, correct. I do not believe my efforts in the coming days shall prove fruitful, but that does not mean one should not at least try. As you said, least I can do is care."

"Some of their views towards wizard-kind, though, particularly wizards and witches like my family and young Mr Weasley's are… quite disturbing."

Dumbledore seemed to hold a counsel of some sort in his head, staring at nothing as though reading some plan off the back of his head.

"No harm shall befall you or your family, Graham," he said at last after a long moment of silence. "As long as we are there, you are under my protection."


The rest of the afternoon passed by in a vapour of meaningless meandering of time, and soon the Greengrass manor was to be departed for the next great adventure.

Or so Harry thought somewhat sullenly. He sat upon his trunk out in the hall, along with Dumbledore and Mr Greengrass, awaiting the rest of their party.

Daphne had been ready five minutes ago, until she suddenly wasn't, declaring as she ran she had forgotten her tool kit or other – Harry hadn't really paid attention. Ron was still nowhere to be seen, but Harry had heard a giant thump moments ago, followed swiftly by an anguished cry of pain and a string of curses that had made Astoria blush and giggle.

"No, don't… run off." Harry sighed, watching as Astoria took off abruptly, rounding the corner and disappearing from sight. "We're never leaving this place…"

Dumbledore chuckled, his gaze lingering on where Astoria had just disappeared. "Fear not, Harry, we are in no hurry."

Not long after Ron came limping down the stairs, carrying his trunk with some effort. Harry caught Dumbledore's subtle flick of a wand and suddenly Ron seemed to carry it with no effort at all.

"Thanks, sir," said Ron with a sigh of relief as he sat his trunk alongside Harry's. "I'm the last one – wait, where's Daphne?"

Harry shook his head disgustedly and grunted at the stairs. Before long, though, Daphne had found her stuff and Astoria seemed to appear from nothing and ready to go they were.

"Gather around now, Harry and Mr Weasley," said Dumbledore, holding out his arm. "Grasp my arm – good, good. Now, in a moment we shall apparate to the station. You remember the sensation, yes? Bit uncomfortable, but try not to fight it too much. Let it take you along freely and the discomfort will lessen."

Dumbledore nodded to Mr Greengrass, who were preparing to side-along apparate his two daughters. Harry nodded grimly and tighten his whole body despite Dumbledore words.

And then they were off. The discomfort was there, as it had been the first time around, when Dumbledore had picked him up earlier in the summer, but Harry found himself with a greater sense of being this time around, squeezed inside this tube-like mode of being as they were, and found himself relaxing inside the vortex.

Moments later Harry found them standing at the edge of a long line of people, who all seemed to have trunks of some sort hovering beside them. They seemed to come from all walks of life. Parents who tried to contain their small children's juvenile excitement, tourists – by the looks of them – who seemed to find themselves in the midst of the least favourable part of any vacation – as the end or the beginning often is.

Harry looked around the courtyard. It was encased in a girdled iron fence that seemed blacker than the darkest of nights. At the end, standing ajar, stood a giant double gate, cut in a similar fashion to the rest of the fence. Branches of vine tree slithered about the gate and rustled in the gentle breeze that caressed the air. The sky was the bluest blue and the sun ablaze on their backs as they began to find their way through the crowd. Harry, who had never been on any sort of vacation, found all this terribly exciting, and strove not be just as giddy as the small children they just left behind.

"This is us," said Mr Greengrass, steering his two daughters towards a smaller queue off to the side.

"Sir," said Harry, as he and Ron fell into steps beside Dumbledore. "Why didn't we just apparate straight to France?"

"It would have saved us quite a bit of time, wouldn't it?" said Dumbledore thoughtfully, smiling at Harry. "Alas, it is not possible to apparate across large bodies of water. For reasons unknown to us, water in large amounts dampens magic."

Harry furrowed his brow. "But you said you could travel to anywhere in the world with a Portkey. Isn't it the same in principle?"

Dumbledore chuckled delightedly. "No. It may appear so – after all, you're whisked away from one place and immediately placed in another with both. But the way in which the two pieces of magic accomplishes that task is vastly different. Apparition is much more a linear task. Think of it as following a string along the shortest road from where you are to where you want to go, skidding across the grounds." He paused as they stepped into the line – the smallest in the courtyard – and stroked his beard in thought. "Portkey, very simplified, is a temporary binding of two places, chained together through a vessel, wherein everything can be transported. It involves a great deal of calculation of space and matter and is infinitely more complex than Apparition. As a result, it is not a skill picked up by many."

"And not taught at Hogwarts, is it?" said Harry with a forlorn look.

"One of the few spells not taught at Hogwarts, yes." Dumbledore stepped up behind Mr Greengrass in the small queue. "But we shall not be travelling by Portkey, either."

Harry blinked. "No?"

Dumbledore shook his head, chuckling slightly. "No. Our method of transportation on this lovely afternoon is, shall we say, a smidgen more extravagant."

Dumbledore and Mr Greengrass offered their tickets to the man in the booth, and together they stepped through the door and into the whitest of lights. Harry held up his hand against the light, shielding his eyes, and followed Dumbledore and the rest. The long narrow hallway, made entirely of grey cobblestone, stretched out before them, and when his eyes finally adjusted he noted that Astoria had already taken off, running away at full speed.

"She ever get tired," mumbled Ron, shaking his head.

"You ever been here?" asked Harry, walking alongside Ron at the rear.

"No – never been outside Britain."

"Me neither."

"Really?" Ron blinked. "I thought – dad says muggles have their own ways of travel."

"They do. They have something called aeroplanes. Among other things."

"Aero… planes?"

Harry nodded. "A device used to achieve flight with."

"They can fly?" Ron looked incredulous at the thought and Harry, if he hadn't known Ron, would have found the look slightly more condescending than he currently did.

Friendship, he supposed, really was a form of currency all to its own.

"Yeah. They can travel a large number of people across the world in hours. Quite neat – my aunt and uncle took Dudley a couple of years ago to this island called Mallorca. Beautiful place, really, judging by the pictures…"

"You didn't go." It wasn't a question. Harry supposed Ron, in his own way, knew Harry enough to read him better than most. Perhaps better than anybody else.

"Went to Mrs Figg. Weird woman across the street." Harry paused, blinking and stopping in the hallway. "Actually, come to think of it… maybe not weird at all. Just… excuse me, Professor?" Harry called aloud, gaining the attention of Dumbledore.

Dumbledore looked up from his conversation with Daphne. "Yes, Harry?"

"Mrs Figg – she's a – what are they called, Ron?"

Ron furrowed his brow, looking a tad concerned with his friend. "What are who called?"

"Those like Filch – born from magic without it."

"Oh. You mean Squibs."

"Yes! Those. She's one of them, isn't she? A squib." Harry smiled as he caught up with Dumbledore. "No point denying it."

Dumbledore chuckled. "No point confirming anything, either."

"Okay – prove then." Harry frowned and spent a moment in his head, running through his thoughts. "The cats, overly large and eyes that seemed to understand far too much of what was going on around them. And Mrs Figg's own strange fascination with moon cycles. Superstition in the Muggle world, sure, but merely unproven magic of divination in our world, yes? Her books – before she noticed my interest and hid them from me – never made much sense… of course, now they make perfect sense. And you, sir, planted her there, right?"

Dumbledore smiled but said nothing.

Daphne picked up the thread. "Why would he do that?"

"I dunno – keep watch on me, perhaps?"

"Ah, why did you mind draw that conclusion?" asked Dumbledore. "What line of reason did you follow to get to that point?"

Harry thought all his thoughts to the end, taking a long moment of consideration. Through the silence Dumbledore only smiled encouragingly, waiting for him to catch up.

"A bit of a coincidence, isn't it?" said Harry at last. "A squib as a neighbour in perhaps the most Muggle-ish place in the world. Too much of a coincidence. Squibs are, as far as I can tell, rather uncommon, yeah? And most of them end up living lives excluded from our world. This was your way of giving Mrs Figg a connection with the world she was denied as a child, same as Filch – and she could keep taps on me, make a living, have a life – with magic. It was a kindness and a purpose she was well-suited for, because no one else would do it, right? It may have worked out better for Figg than Filch, though, but sometimes it's the thought that counts…"

"The thought always counts, my dear boy – no matter what may happen… the thought always counts for something."

Harry could feel Daphne's slightly confused eyes burn into the side of his face, but Harry was sure he understood. He reached for a smile, eyes locked with Dumbledore, and by some old instinct he found it willing and easy.

"You can't always lessen the past's pain…"

"But you can always do what's right, even if it is untimely – and giving people just a little light is never wrong. Never. Only those poor souls burdened too much by convenient pessimism would argue as such."

"Are you coming or what?" screamed Astoria, her voice echoing across the hallway and shattering the poignant bubble that had settled over their little group.

"Yes, dear," said Mr Greengrass and, taking his daughter's hand, he smiled at Harry and walked off towards his other daughter, who stood at the point wherein the hallway broadened and revealed… something… of which Harry couldn't quite make out.

Dumbledore smiled one last enigmatic time, gazing between Ron and Harry, and then turned and followed Mr Greengrass and his daughters.

"What was that about?" asked Ron, staring befuddled after the old Professor.

"Advice."

"About what?"

"To be honest, I'm not sure. Eh, I suppose it will make sense in time."

Ron grunted and turned his eyes to Harry, staring for a long moment.

Harry arched his brow. "What?"

"Sometimes, Harry, I think you're just making things up as you go along."

"Oh always," said Harry. He turned and began walking towards the exit. "You wanna know the trick, though?"

Ron smiled. "Sure."

Harry smiled, too. "Just pretend it's part of the plan."

The hallway opened up and revealed a vast open space filled with a small dollop of people bustling to and fro, kissing, hugging and saying their goodbyes as people boarded the train that stood in the centre of all the commotion.

The train, catching Harry's attention, bore a striking resemblance to the Hogwarts Express, down to the faded scarlet colour. The entire room, in fact, seemed almost a mirror-image of the Platform nine and three-quarters. And yet there was something missing.

Gazing around the large buildings, small balls of fluorescent, ever-vibrant lights circling like the candle lights in the Great Hall above their heads, Harry found one spot of bother.

"How does it get out? There're no exits."

"Oh, magic, I imagine," said Dumbledore, quietly chuckling behind his beard.

"Where're the train tracks?" asked Ron.

Harry blinked and looked down. Oh. He hadn't noticed that.

"Doesn't need them," said Mr Greengrass, rather impatiently, thought Harry, as the patriarch of the Greengrass family ascended the steps and entered the train.

Harry and Ron shared a look, frowning, then shrugged simultaneously, and went to board the train, as well.

The quiet, ever-lumbering chatter of a bustling crowd filled his ears as he followed Dumbledore and the others through the narrow hallway inside the train, every so often looking inside the carriages, of which were almost always stuffed to the brim with people.

Harry furrowed his brow, catching one or two stares along the way. Upon the air there hung a heavy scent, oily – like a smoke of sorts – and an incessant clatter and bang of owls screeching indignantly, toads toadying along, and little girls giggling their adoration and little boys bolstering for their approval.

Harry's frowned deepened, and took a step to the side a moment before Ron almost stumbled over a cat that ran through his legs.

"Stupid cat!" muttered Ron, ears reddening slightly.

No. Fuck sake. Harry shook his head. It was no different than any other old crowd, and therein laid the rub. A déjà vu was quite easily, and often, he imagined, achievable in instants such as this – an old sensation mistaken as an identical experience had under quite similar, almost down to the muddy details of the little kid's broken shoes as he ran by…

Harry shook his head. Again. He had been here before. Done it before. Seen it all…

Well, who hasn't been on a train before?

Stop looking at them, he told himself, almost yelling inside his own head, as his heart quickened and his breath hastened. But he didn't, couldn't. Hadn't ever been able not to.

A lithe young woman with blonde hair and a light complexion in a red skirt and a simple white blouse tucked at the waist glided past their group with a practiced ease, pushing a large trolley with all sorts of sweets and packed dinners.

Harry stared after her, and she caught his eyes and smirked at him. She looked to be a couple of years out of Hogwarts, at least – he'd had no chance of ever meeting her, least of all like this… and yet… and yet he felt like…

"Something from the trolley, dear?" she asked, not unkindly, but in a manner that Harry found somewhat infuriating nonetheless – like she thought she could see right through him.

"Eh?" Harry blinked, and caught himself still staring at the girl. He tore his gaze away and focused on the trolley. "No – eh, sorry. Looks good – the food, that is."

"Harry?"

Thank Merlin. "Coming, Daphne!" He turned away from the girl, who did little now to contain her giggling, and went to Daphne, who stood by a compartment door and waited for him. "Did you see what was on that trolley? Looked great."

"Sure." Daphne frowned, staring at him with an arched eyebrow. "Sure it did."

"It did!"

"Men."

Harry laughed, noted the name Dumbledore written in fiery-red letters above the door, and entered. "You don't even know what that means."

"Do too! A tiny skirt and every boy's a drooling buffoon."

Harry stared at her. "Who talks like that?"

"Shut up!" Daphne lightly punched his shoulder and stirred him towards the window where Ron and Astoria sat.

The compartment had obviously seen the touch of magic. Expanded to such a degree that Harry had no trouble imagining an entire class could hurdle together along the bench in there. Dumbledore and Mr Greengrass sat by the door, a conjured table and some tea between them, and seemed to be caught up in another quiet discussion. Harry had been catching them in one of those quiet often throughout the day, and wondered not for the first time just what all the fuzz was about.

Ron and Astoria, as Harry had seen, sat by the window, where another table stood beneath it - this one obviously by design.

"Come on," said Ron, smiling at Astoria – the two of them had hit it off from the start. Harry supposed Ron had experience with younger girls. "Tell me, Astoria."

"Nope – Daphne said it'd be funnier if you find out for yourself."

"What's this?" Harry asked and sat down beside Ron.

"She won't tell me how this train moves."

"It flies," said Harry, holding up his wand. He turned it over, carefully inspecting the insignia caved into the wood. It had been dulled and smeared by the constant tooth of time, fainted to the lightest touch, but Harry thought – as he was wont to – that he could just about see it.

"It – what?" inquired Ron.

"Well, what else can it do, right?" said Harry. "Did you look at the wheels – if you can call something square a wheel. Unless it's one big Portkey, which it isn't, then it flies."

"You're no fun," said Astoria, though she smiled anyway.

Harry drew his wand in the air and let it flow in the shape of triangle, leaving a burning imprint of smoke in the space between the foursome. Then he trailed a small circle inside the shape and with a flourish swept his wand upwards and drew a straight line right through the middle of it.

"Any of you seen this before?" said Harry, looking at Daphne and Astoria through the haze of smoke.

"No," said Ron. "Cool sign, though."

"It's not a sign – it's an insignia."

"What?" said Ron.

"Look at it, Ron! Look how cool it is! Way too cool to be just a sign. No this – this is an insignia."

"Whatever, mate…"

Daphne shook her head, her eyes lingering only for a second on the insignia, before going back to the window, seemingly more interested by what was about to happen outside.

Astoria, however, spent a long moment staring intently at the figure. And then it was gone with a small pop, and she jumped in fright with a quiet shriek.

"No magic, Harry. Please," said Dumbledore from the other end of the compartment and pocketed his wand. He smiled benignly, not at all put out, and went back to his conversation with Mr Greengrass.

Harry stared after him for a moment, then turned to Astoria. "You recognized it, didn't you?"

"Maybe. Not sure. Think I saw it somewhere once."

"Really?" said Ron, voice whisper-thin, leaning in. "Where did you find it, Harry?"

"From Dumbledore, I guess." Harry passed his wand to Ron discreetly, and Ron inspected it just as Harry had done so often over the summer since he first discovered it.

"Why is you wand always so bloody cold?" whispered Ron, shaking his hands to get blood and warmth back after he handed it over to Astoria's eager hands. "It feels old – your wand. Looks it, too."

"Yeah. You can tell it used to be more than just a faint… image," said Harry as he accepted the wand from Astoria's shaking hands.

"Can I have a look?" asked Daphne, tearing her eyes away from the window.

"You have no idea where you've seen it?" asked Harry, looking at Astoria as he handed it to Daphne.

Astoria shook her head and shrugged. "I could be imagining it. It is just a triangle and circle."

"I guess."

Daphne handed back the wand with shaky hands. "That wand is awful."

"Not to me," said Harry, sighing as a surge of warm light raced across his skin the moment he accepted it back. "Not to me."

It was at that moment a jolt went through the entire train, knocking any old thought of olden wands and strange symbols right out of Harry's head – for a moment later they ascended the air, the train groaning as it carried itself on old bones and older magic.

Harry, Ron and Astoria pressed themselves up against the window, looking as they slowly left behind the ground beneath them and drew closer and closer to the floating lights and the very solid-looking ceiling above.

"It better open up soon," whispered Ron.

"Maybe it doesn't need to," said Harry. "Remember the entrance to the Platform Nine and three-quarters?"

Closer and closer they drew to the ceiling. A few people were still left out on the platform and they waved their goodbyes – and then they were out of sight and a cool touch, like a fine mist, swept through Harry as he – along with everybody else – was engulfed for a moment in a deep, deep darkness. And then they cleared the ceiling and found themselves beneath the open, beautiful afternoon sky.

And still they ascended. By now they were up so high that Harry could see what he thought must have been London in the distance.

"Won't Muggles see us?" asked Ron of the room, though his eyes never left the window.

"No," said Astoria and Daphne.

Harry smiled. "It's enchanted – like Hogwarts. Right, sir?"

"That is correct, Harry." Dumbledore smiled and stood behind them, looking out over the world over their shoulders. "Extraordinary creations," he said as he glanced at the towering city that rested upon the ground in the horizon. "Buildings like mountains…"

They slowed to a stop, hovering still for just a moment stretching into two, and then it seemed to shift physically into gear, jolting forward with a sort of mechanical bellow – and then it gained speed rapidly and before long London – or whatever city it was – was out of sight. And soon they were out over open water, cruising at speed towards their destination.

"Be about an hour before we touch down in Liberalia," said Dumbledore, sitting back down by the table he'd conjured for him and Mr Greengrass.

"Dad's been weird," said Daphne quietly a little while later, her eyes flicking back to her dad every now and then.

"Yeah," said Harry, much less inconspicuous with his looks. "He's been acting all nervous. Doesn't like traveling perhaps?"

"No, he loves it – we travel every summer," said Astoria.

"Weird."

The constant blur of a different landscape crawled across the window as they hammered along. Every now and then a new face would pop by and have a quiet chat with Dumbledore. Only just a few words mostly, but still enough for Harry to understand just how famous his old Professor really was.

And – to his chagrin – it also revealed just how famous he himself was. Most of them, if not all, chanced a glance passed Dumbledore, staring for a moment or two at him, their eyes flickering up to his lightning scar, before leaving him alone.

"Albus, oh dear Albus! I heard you were amongst us, but I could scarcely believe it – yet here you are!"

Harry turned his head and beheld an old, stooped and slightly broken-looking man standing crookedly in the door, half-bent over Dumbledore with an almost ravenous expression upon his wrinkled face. He was wearing black, non-describt robes and spoke with the barest hints of a french accent.

"George Monet." Dumbledore smiled and got to his feet, shaking the worn man's offered hand like old friends. "How very wonderful to see you again – very wonderful, excellent. You coming for the hearing, I shall imagine."

"Oh yes." George Monet nodded reverently, almost comically so, thought Harry. "When I heard you'd be attending – well, wouldn't miss it for the world, Albus! Wouldn't miss it for the world!"

Harry frowned and gripped his wand on reflex in his breast pocket. Something seemed off… about this George Monet? Or perhaps the situation itself?

Dumbledore, by contrast, seemed perfectly at ease. "I do hope I can live up to your expectations, then."

"You always do, Headmaster. Always."

Harry blinked. Something gnawed at him. At the back of his mind… in the dark.

"Harry," whispered Ron heatedly, and he found that his friend had tensed up beside him. "Harry – you're shaking! What's the matter?"

"Dunno…"

"Is it true, I wonder, though? What people say…" said Mr Monet, and drew a speculative expression across his greyish features. "That you've come with… ulterior motives."

Dumbledore smiled more brightly, as though nothing could please him more than to talk gossip with this old man.

"And what, may I inquire, are those ulterior motives of mine you speak of in such secret tunes?"

"Please Albus." Mr Monet laughed heartedly. "Everybody knows you're here as a favour to Cornelius Fudge. The coward didn't dare face questioning himself, did he? How your country elected such a weasel is well and truly beyond me! But no, methinks you are here for more, and not just as Fudge's errant boy."

Harry noted that he no longer pretended to be speaking of some gossip from the streets. Harry, in fact, noted a whole lot seemed to change about the man as the conversation drew onwards. His posture straightened, the look in his eyes sharpened, the tone of his voice matured, the accent was practically gone – even his skin seemed to sleek out and de-age in some capacity!

It's all a show, thought Harry, unable to drag his eyes away from the spectacle of a man. But a show for what? For whom?

"I come with no motives other than to speak my case and let the will of my country be heard in Liberalia's Counsel," said Dumbledore at last, voice free of emotions, almost detached. "I assure you, George, whatever rumours you've heard, they are entirely unfounded."

Mr Monet looked almost disappointed. "You've not come to claim at last that which was offered to you all those years ago? That which is yours by right of conquest?"

Dumbledore, if Harry didn't know better, almost seemed embarrassed by the question.

"I'm here to claim nothing but the right for my country to have its say," said Dumbledore, smiling with a palpable weight of finality.

Mr Monet blinked, frowned, and seemed to shrink once more in on himself. "Well, we shall be looking forward to hearing your words, then. Good luck, Headmaster."

"Haven't you heard, George?" Dumbledore smiled and sat down again. "I am no longer the Headmaster of Hogwarts."

George Monet, standing at the threshold of the compartment, cast a final glance back at Dumbledore, then his eyes drifted for an edge of a second that seemed to stretch across infinity to Harry.

"There are things of the past that will never let go, Albus. Never. Things we cannot outrun, no matter how hard we try. Good evening."

And with a final meek nod he was gone.

"Harry," whispered Ron, "Harry – you look like you've seen a dragon."

"It's nothing," replied Harry hurriedly. "Nothing."

But as the door had closed behind Mr Monet, Harry realized what had him so on edge. Because here, for the first time in months, as the train began descending towards Liberalia, Harry found that he'd just witnessed something that felt completely fresh.

He got no sense that he'd ever seen or heard or met George Monet, no sense that he'd seen this conversation before.

And, for some reason unknown to him, it scared him just as much as Voldemort had last Christmas.

Harry peeked out the window and saw a darkened sky and a grand city of lights, Paris, approaching from below, then total darkness fell on them, a wet cold like fine mist swept through him, and suddenly a grand castle of the whitest marble stood where the city of Paris had just been.

"Welcome to Liberalia," said the announcer.

"That was Paris," said Harry. "I saw the Eiffel Tower just then."

Dumbledore smiled. "Yes, Harry."

Harry looked back out the window. It seemed the castle stood upon a lake and the water surrounding it was of pure, impenetrable darkness – only it wasn't. It was…

"No – really?"

Everyone, even Ron, smiled secretly at Harry, beholding his wide-eyed marvel as the truth of Liberalia slowly unfolded for his mind.

The castle, and the surrounding city, didn't stand on a lake, it didn't stand on anything! It floated, mid-air, atop the great city of lights, Paris.

Harry bolted out of his seat as soon as the train touched down on the landing grounds, pushing passed the bustling crowd in the narrow space of the hallway, until he jumped out onto the open platform and was engulfed by the pleasant evening wind of France.

Panting with excitement, disbelief, and sheer fucking wonder, he made for the edge of the platform off to the side, walking careful and more carefully as he approached. At the edge he stretched his head out and cast his eyes upon the Eiffel Tower and the great city of Paris that sat below and stretched out across the Earth as far as he could see. Mountains, obscured by the darkness of the night, could gleamed just about in the horizon far, far away.

"I love magic!" whispered Harry, his eyes slightly watery. "Merlin, I love magic."

"Beautiful view," said a voice behind him. "But do be careful. Standing so close to ze edge is like courting trouble, monsieur Potter."

Harry spun about, wand in hand and aloft, crouched against the stranger behind him.

But the man had already turned his back to Harry and spread his arms in a grand welcoming gesture as Dumbledore and the rest of Harry's friends approached.

"Albus Dumbledore. Welcome – welcome to Liberalia."

"Hello President Delacour," said Dumbledore, engulfing the portly French man in a hug. "And this beautiful young lady must be your daughter, I take it."

As Ron and Daphne came to stand at his sides, Harry flicked his eyes from the portly man to the girl next to him. She was almost as tall as her father, who wasn't too tall of a man himself. She had waist-length silvery-blonde hair that seemed to gleam in the light of the moon and very light, creamy-white skin. She, like her father, were wearing very fine midnight blue robes.

"Non, zis is my wife."

Dumbledore blinked, non-pulsed. "Oh."

Mr Delacour let forth a bellow of a laugh, resting his hand atop the bulge of his protruding abdomen. "Jesting, Albus. I am jesting. Oui. Zis is my beautiful daughter, Fleur. And zis," he said and turned back to Harry, "is Hogwarts' favoured son, I believe. You life is legend… 'Arry Potter. Say hello Fleur."

"Hello," said Fleur, her eyes flickering over Harry and his friends with disinterest before nodding respectfully to Dumbledore and Mr Greengrass.

"Hello," said Harry and waved jovially.

Mr Delacour smiled. "I must know, is half ze things I've heard in ze last year true?"

Harry shrugged. "Probably."

"Magnifique!" He clasped his hands together and rubbed them eagerly. "A tour! A tour of Liberalia, dinner at Rousellé, and then a good night sleep before ze festivities tomorrow. Welcome again, 'Arry Potter – welcome to Liberalia!"


End of chapter and finally we have the show on the road again.

Yeah, been months since last. Sorry about that. I've been preparing for something that should have come together next year these last couple of months. Kept me busy. That, along with this chapter being a pain in my ass – this is the fourth or fifth rewrite of the chapter – meant that this was a long time coming.

Now, the bad news is that that thing I'd spent all my time on just fell through. The good news is that I'll probably have more time for this now. So yeah, the next ten or eleven chapters all are noted out and ready to be written. It's gonna be epic, if it all comes together nice and tight.

Again, sorry for the long wait, hopefully the story still makes sense, if you do decide to pick it up again.

Thank you for your attention, dear reader. Have a good day.