Edited 6/26/22


Three

Keeper of Keys

Harry found it difficult to tour Hogwarts castle at Headmaster Dippet's achingly slow pace, but he did his best to follow a step or two behind the old fellow, and he tried to make the right expressions when introduced to things he had seen a thousand times before.

They walked through empty halls and up empty stairways for most of the day. Every so often they would come across one of the professors in their offices and Headmaster Dippet would make a brief introduction of Harry as 'poor old Ogg's replacement.'

Harry smiled politely and shook hands with each of the teachers, dredging up whatever knowledge he'd managed to store away over the years. There was Professor Merrythought, who was a swarthy old woman with large happy cheeks and thoughtful navy blue eyes—she taught Defense Against the Dark Arts—and Professor Binns, the History professor who looked largely the same alive as dead, and Professor Hopkirk who taught Charms and was wispy and bent, and had a dry sort of coughing sickness, and looked like he might croak at any moment. Harry was gentle when he shook the man's hand and accepted a small piece of hard candy from him.

Peeves, dressed in his familiar jester's motley, dropped in on them once, but the look Headmaster Dippet gave the poltergeist as it opened its mouth to comment on their tour could have curdled fresh milk. He doffed his belled hat to the headmaster and sucked his teeth, floating away through a wall without a word.

When they reached the sixth floor and drew near the room Harry knew contained Professor Slughorn, he tried to steer Dippet away on the pretense of inspecting the cupboards, but he might as well have been trying to steer a hungry bull away from a trough full of grain.

"Very well connected is old Horace," grumbled Headmaster Dippet. "He requires a great deal of attention, and I should not like to have to reintroduce you when it comes time to lug those evergreens he fancies up here at Christmastime. The cupboards can wait. Though I am impressed by your eagerness."

The Head of Slytherin's office looked much the same as Harry remembered it. It was a roomy space with a pair of plush violet sofas and a large round table crowded with ornate dining chairs. The doors to the balcony were open and the soft summer breeze tickled at the silver and green drapes. Professor Slughorn looked much the same as well, though younger; he was still rotund but looked stiff rather than soft, and his hair was a healthy red-pepper blonde. He was out on the balcony, smoking something pungent from a magnificent whalebone pipe.

"Oho!" cried Professor Slughorn when he caught sight of them. He set his pipe down on a glittery silver tray and stroked his walrusy mustache. "And who might this be, Headmaster? A new student?" He waddled in from the balcony and came to grasp Harry's hand with both of his pudgy ones. "A pleasure indeed, I am Professor Slughorn, Head of Slytherin House and Potions Master for Hogwarts School, Mr.?"

"Harry Potter," said Professor Dippet. "He is replacing poor old Ogg as Keeper of Keys and Grounds."

Harry watched as Slughorn's face lit up with the familiar look of appraisal, though it was tinged with a bit of disappointment at the mention of his title.

"Groundskeeper, eh?" said Professor Slughorn. He reached around to rub the top of his gut. "Potter, though. And young. Got his foot in the door, though. Must be Dumbledore if it's Potter."

"Not those Potters, Horace," said Professor Dippet. "And yes, Dumbledore, but don't you go off gathering ideas."

"Not those Potters!" said Professor Slughorn, plainly bewildered. "Why, Headmaster, I should not like to accuse you of madness, but he's the very image of Charlus—married well, that one did."

"Is he?" said Professor Dippet, turning round to regard Harry even more closely than he had during their interview. "Charlus?"

Harry felt the urge to bolt rise in him like well-water in a storm. Of course, Professor Slughorn would remember family resemblances, and though Harry did have Lily Potter's eyes, every wizard he had ever met had said the same thing: Harry was nearly his father's double. And James Potter had looked the same as his father. It had been relatively simple to lead Headmaster Dippet away from the topic of family and history; the man didn't really seem to care who Harry was, just that he had the (alleged) recommendation of Professor Dumbledore.

"What is your father's name, Mr. Potter?" said Professor Slughorn eagerly. "I'm always up for a bit of intrigue."

"James," said Harry. "But I don't know anyone by the name of Charlus, I'm afraid." He really did not want to lie anymore; he wasn't sure he'd be able to keep it all straight without the proper planning, and he dearly wished that Professor Dumbledore would appear at the door to save him. "And my mum's a muggleborn, sir."

"Is she?" said Professor Slughorn, eyebrows soaring. "And her name?"

Harry was nearly at his wit's end. "Lily Evans, sir."

"Evans," muttered Professor Slughorn, rubbing his stomach furiously. "Evans... no, I don't recall. I don't recall..."

"Oh, don't harass the boy, Horace," said Professor Dippet all of a sudden. "He's just got here. He's never been to Hogwarts before. And I should like to think if any pureblood family had anything illicit to hide you would let. It. Lie."

"All right, all right—Durmstrang, then?" said Professor Slughorn. He ran his pale eyes over Harry once more. "Strapping lad, plenty strong enough for that blasted forest by the look of him. Not my preference to send our boys overseas, but—"

"No, not Durmstrang," said Harry quickly.

"Homeschooled," said Headmaster Dippet. "And that's enough prying." He gave Harry an apologetic look and motioned for them to leave.

"I meant no offense, Mr. Potter!" cried Professor Slughorn as they reached the door. He was rushing over to them. "Sincerely." He wriggled around the headmaster, blocking their exit with the bulk of his stomach and mustache. "And I would be honored if you joined me for tea once the term begins. I'm sure after long years of solitude you would be glad for some company… and conversation."

"Solitude?" asked Harry, confused.

"I'm sure you haven't had the chance to converse with many wizards your own age, my boy," said Professor Slughorn. "Being homeschooled. And you can't be a day over nineteen—"

"Eighteen," said Harry automatically, and winced.

"Eighteen!" echoed Professor Slughorn delightedly. "Why you'll get along famously with the others! They are, in this old man's opinion, the best Hogwarts has ever produced. My dear Mary might turn out to be Minister for Magic, and young Cyrus Lestrange has just discovered a new species of venomous rhododendron!"

Harry looked to Professor Dippet for assistance. He had not enjoyed his time in the Slug Club when he had actually attended Hogwarts, and he certainly did not want to attend now that he was in the year nineteen forty-three—but Tom Riddle had been one of Horace Slughorn's favorites. Harry battled his squirreliness away. It was too good an opportunity to let by.

"Horace," started Headmaster Dippet, frowning, "I don't think it prudent for—"

"I actually wouldn't mind, Headmaster," Harry cut in. "If it's just the one time, I think it would be all right."

Professor Slughorn beamed up at him. "Expect an invitation by owl or messenger, Mr. Potter. And I look forward to our long and lasting friendship."

"Yes, quite," said Headmaster Dippet stiffly. "Come along, Mr. Potter. There are still the cupboards to appraise."

They finished their tour of the castle on the seventh floor and began on the inspection of cupboards, most of which the headmaster did not know the matching keys for access.

"I suppose you can come back at your leisure," said Professor Dippet, after trying several keys on a particularly tricky closet in the dungeons. "I do wish Ogg had left a manual for these." He returned the keyring to Harry, all jumbled, and led him away and through the double doors to outside.

It was dusk, and the sky was streaked red-orange and plum as they wandered down the castle steps and into the gardens. The Hogwarts greenhouses stood neatly in a row, but the headmaster was clear when he explained that Harry should leave the tending of those to Professor Beery, who was in charge of Herbology. Harry would focus on tending the vegetable gardens and making certain that there was enough roughage for the children. Growing students required a varied diet, he said, and one that was rich in vitamins and minerals that could only be attained through the consumption of good homegrown vegetables.

"I should be all right at that," said Harry. "I've spent most summers gardening at… erm, home."

They wound their way down to the Quidditch pitch, where the headmaster instructed Harry to maintain the quality of the green, and back again around to the lake and the boathouse where Harry was shown an armada of worn and leaky rowboats, and finally down the castle lawns to the Forbidden Forest.

When a darkened log cabin set on the fringe of the forest came into view, Harry froze, remembering the great fire that had consumed Hagrid's hut in the year nineteen ninety-seven. Headmaster Dippet grunted at his pause and motioned him towards the door. It took him a moment, but Harry swallowed his twang of grief and complied.

As they approached, he saw that this building was much smaller and more well-proportioned than Hagrid's hut had been. Harry had to assume that Ogg had been a normal-sized man, and not half a giant, but there was the air of nostalgia to the setting regardless. He spied the old pumpkin patch just behind the cabin, and the paddock, all the same as he remembered.

"It isn't much for looks," said the headmaster as they went up the packed dirt path, "but it should suffice. There is a well for fresh water, and you are welcome to all meals inside the castle, of course." Dippet regarded him through wrinkled eyes, as though he'd saved the cabin as a last surprise, and awaited Harry's protest, like any reasonably civilized fellow might when faced with a shoddy old cabin for a home. "Might get nippy most nights, but it's nothing that a good warming charm and a fire can't solve."

Harry nodded and pulled the smaller key ring that he had been given from the pocket of his shabby robes and said, "It's great, thank you, Headmaster."

"Is it?" muttered Professor Dippet. "Right again, right again." He shook his head. "Why must I argue at this point, truly?" He offered Harry the hint of a smile and reached into his robes, coming up with a folded square of parchment. "Here is a reference for your duties, Mr. Potter. Should anything further arise, I will make it known. Get yourself settled. Move your things. The first years will be arriving by dusk the day after tomorrow and the boats need mending."

"All right," said Harry; he held his hand out for the headmaster to shake. "I'll do my best, sir."

"I expect nothing less," said Professor Dippet; he shook Harry's hand firmly, if briefly, and turned to depart up the lawn.

"Erm, one last thing, Headmaster," Harry called. "I am glad to have met all the others, but do you know when Professor Dumbledore will be back? I've got something to discuss with—" And here it was. He would know for certain now. "—her."

Professor Dippet didn't flinch. He waved a hand, absently. "She's in and out, but I'm sure she'll be back in time for the feast. Hasn't missed one yet." Without looking back, the headmaster walked up the hillock and away to the castle. He did not notice the shock on Harry's face in the dark.

Harry sat heavily on the step to his new residence and tried to puzzle out what could have happened to cause this new disaster. It was certainly 1943. And he had traveled back in time. And then somehow Professor Dumbledore had become a woman.

"It was old magic," he mumbled to himself as the Forbidden Forest creaked and chirped behind him. "But the headmaster thought he understood how it worked."

Harry could count on his hand the number of times Albus Dumbledore had been incorrect on the theory of magic spells. He supposed he could let his headmaster have some slack for this one. He had been sick and dying. Harry stared at his worn and calloused palm for a moment, then ran his hands through his hair. There was nothing for it now. This new Professor Dumbledore would have to help him figure it out. By Headmaster Dippet's account, she was every bit as brilliant as his own Professor Dumbledore had been—though fifty-five years less experienced. Harry stood and faced the door to his cabin. He slid his key into the lock.

The cabin was dark and smelled of dry scots pine. There were three small windows that let the shade of the evening in and cut little squares of purple-green on the floorboards. Harry lit his wand with a whisper and sought out the fireplace. It was set against the wall facing the Black Lake and was jarringly plain, just dull gray stone and dull gray mortar of regular size and breadth. He supposed that he had spent so much time inside Hagrid's stretched-out hut that anything normal here seemed an oddity.

A bed made of rough-hewn lumber was against the opposite wall with a small pine table near the stubby headboard and a polished pine bench at its foot. The mattress was covered with a thin white sheet, thin enough for Harry to see the bundled straw underneath. There were no soft pillows like in his room at the Hog's Head.

The Hog's Head.

Professor Dumbledore.

Aberforth.

Harry lit the fire and went to sit on the bed. He felt in his pocket for Arabella's brass key and held it up in his palm.

"She can't be," whispered Harry. He glanced up at the rafters, empty of hams and pheasant carcasses. "But then, why wouldn't she be, seeing as Professor Dumbledore is."

Sighing, he attached the Hogwarts keyring to the belt loop on his trousers and doused his brand new fire and locked the door to his new cabin behind him, then started down the path towards Hogsmeade village. "Bugger all, but he did say it would be the most tumultuous adventure yet."

Harry walked without a light, just breathing in the scent of trees and darkness, and tried not to think too hard about the upturned state of his journey. He might have lost his courage if he did.

There were some elves skittering about invisible in the gardens; he could see their little long-toed footprints in the soil as he passed by. An intermittent small red strobe high on the castle wall let Harry know that Professor Slughorn was still smoking his pipe on the balcony. That aside, Hogwarts castle was a dim and steady backdrop.

The great wrought iron gates were shut but unlocked when Harry reached the edge of the grounds. He thought about leaving them unlocked as he passed through, but the raw nippy feeling of irresponsibility held him. He glanced down at his new keyring.

Harry conjured a flaming torch and stood on his toes to slip it under the hooves of the winged boar that stood guard over the gate. "Just hold onto this for a moment, will you?" he asked the statue. He waved his wand, moving the boar's foot forward to pin the torch in place, then pulled the gates shut.

The Hogwarts keyring was a huge iron loop, one hand span and a half wide, and it was crowded with keys of every shape, description, and metal—there was even a key made of ivory, and one made of wood, perhaps oak. Harry stared blankly at them for a time. He could rule out the ivory and the oak, but it was difficult to narrow it further than that. Several keys had the Hogwarts School crest wrought for a bow, some had the crest etched on the shank, and a dozen were large enough to fit into the lock on the gate.

"Is young master thinking very hard?" said a familiar squeaky voice down near his knees.

Had Harry been a jumpy fellow he might have stepped on Gilly's bulbous head at the suddenness of her appearance at his side. Instead, he let out a quiet profanity and swatted at her head. "Gilly, don't do that!"

"Gilly is very sorry, young master!" she cried. The house-elf's arms were full of soil-dusted yellow carrots, but it didn't stop her from making a run at the closed gate and ramming her head into the iron bars. "Bad Gilly!"

"Knock it off, Gilly," said Harry, looking between his partially sorted keyring and the charging elf. "For goodness' sake." He stuffed the keyring into his pocket and grabbed the elf by her head with one hand. "You'll ruin your carrots!"

"Yes, sir," said Gilly with a sniff. "Gilly is not supposed to be following so far away from the kitchens, but Gilly has seen young master having his evening walk and Gilly wanted to apologize for... for... informing! Gilly did not know that young master is Keeper of Keys! Young master must believe Gilly! Gilly is a good elf!"

"I've only just taken the post," said Harry gently. He dropped the elf, watching as she scrambled to keep all of her vegetables in place. "You didn't do any wrong, I suppose. In fact, it might be your fault I became Keeper of Keys at all. You don't have to apologize."

"Gilly's fault?" The house-elf's eyes were nearly glowing blue in the dark. "Gilly has made the young master take the post?" Her eyes filled with tears; she threw her carrots into the air and fell onto her bottom and began to cry.

"Gilly, what's the matter?" said Harry, crouching to scoop the carrots up from the gravel path, but the elf just grew louder. "Gilly stop crying!"

"Gilly is— Gilly is so—" she wailed, waving her arms about in the air. "Gilly is so happy! Gilly is glad for young master to be the Keeper of Keys and Grounds, sir!" The little elf wiped the tears from her eyes and stood, but when she saw that Harry had gathered up the carrots up for her, new tears welled up.

Harry hurried forward to stuff the carrots into her arms. "Gilly, please don't cry anymore."

"Yes, sir, young master, sir," said Gilly, her mouth atremble. "Gilly will not cry anymore."

"Are you certain?" said Harry seriously. Then, unable to resist, he winked at her. "It just would not do if the Keeper of Keys had to send Gilly off to be punished. You might be flogged, or boiled in hot water."

Eyes wide, Gilly bobbled her head. "Young master shows great kindness to be giving Gilly the option, sir, but Gilly does not like being boiled. Gilly will take her flogging if she cries anymore."

Harry pinched his nose. "Yes, all right then, Gilly."

"Is Gilly allowed to ask where the young master is going?" said the house-elf, shuffling with her carrots. "And why he cannot find the key for the gates?"

"I've never done this before," answered Harry; he pulled the keyring out and jangled it. "There are so many keys, and I can't figure out which one is for the gate. You wouldn't know, would you?"

"Oh no, sir," said Gilly. "The keys are enchanted, young master, only he who keeps them can know which locks they are all for." She threw her carrots into the air again, but this time she snapped! her fingers and the vegetables hung frozen, inches from the ground. "'Tis like house-elf magic, sir, is for house-elf things. Hogwarts magic is for Hogwarts!"

The little elf began to hop, nodding at the keyring.

Harry stared at it again, but it looked just the same as it had before: much too large, and very old, and with too many indistinguishable keys.

"Young master has to try harder, sir," squeaked Gilly. She clapped a hand over her mouth and screeched, "Bad Gilly! Giving orders is not for house-elves!" She whirled to run again at the gates, but Harry caught her by her tea towel and yanked her into the air.

"It's all right to help, Gilly," said Harry. "And quit it with all the sirs and young masters, my name is Harry. Harry Potter."

Gilly's ears flopped madly as she nodded. "Yes, sir, Harry Potter, sir."

He glared at her, but it did not seem to make an impression, and the little elf's smile only grew wider and more toothy.

"Harry Potter must try again, sir, but he should not be thinking so much," said Gilly. "He keeps the keys, so he must know which is for what."

"Just like that," said Harry, unconvinced. "I'll just know?" He set the elf down and approached the gate, his gaze fixed on the lock—he did his utmost not to think at all about how many different keys there were—and flicked the keyring up, grabbing the first one that came into view. It was a large, baroque iron key with all four of the Hogwarts House animal mascots on the bow. He had not noticed it at all when he'd been reviewing the ring before Gilly's appearance, but it definitely looked to be a match. He slid it into the lock; it was a perfect fit.

"I'll be damned," he muttered. "She was right."

"Wait, Harry Potter, sir!" cried Gilly. "Gilly must be getting back, sir!" She gathered up her floating carrots in her arms and scurried through the gravel drive to stand beside him.

"Say, Gilly, would you like to come with me to Hogsmeade?" asked Harry. "I've got to return something, and it might be nice to have some company."

"Company!" shrieked Gilly, her eyes shining wetly. "Harry Potter will have to flog Gilly, sir. Gilly has never been asked to accompany a wizard. Gilly is surely going to cry again, sir." She was trembling again from her ears to her toes and her face had gone red. Harry thought she might just collapse from the strain of it all.

"Tell you what, Gilly," said Harry hurriedly. "You go put those carrots in the kitchens, and I'll wait here for you. If you happen to cry while I can't see you, then you won't have to be flogged."

Gilly let out a wail of joy, or sadness—Harry couldn't tell which—and raced through the gates and up the drive before disapparating with a loud crack!

She reappeared a few minutes later with new snot stains on her tea towel.

"Let's be off then," said Harry, watching the elf hop up and down with excitement. He had to admit that it was oddly comforting to be accompanied by a deranged house-elf once more. He thought about offering a finger for Gilly to hold onto as they walked down to Hogsmeade station, as one might offer a toddler, but reconsidered. She would probably break down in tears to be cared for in such a manner, and Harry really did not want to flog her.

The high street of Hogsmeade village was lit yellow and orange under the street lamps and there seemed to be a hurriedness to everyone they saw entering or exiting the shops. Everyone was going about their final business before the Hogwarts crowd arrived for the start of term. Harry and Gilly went past Honeydukes and Gladrags Wizardwear unnoticed and turned down the street where the Hog's Head Inn sat, its chimney smoking black in the night.

"Now, Gilly," said Harry. "I'd like for you to make me a promise." He stopped just under the severed boar's head signboard and crouched to elf level. "Whatever is said inside here, it stays just between us."

"A secret, Harry Potter, sir?" whispered Gilly, her eyes wide. "Gilly cannot keep secrets from the Headmaster, sir. Harry Potter is Keeper of Keys, but—but Headmaster Dippet is head of all things at Hogwarts!" She wrung her hands and hopped from foot to foot. "Gilly will be going back then, sir."

Harry groaned. "All right then, Gilly, when it's time you'll just have to shut your ears." He gave her head a pat, then pulled the door of the pub open and ushered her inside.

Blessedly, the Hog's Head Inn looked empty except for a sour-faced Arabella scrubbing at the bar with a damp cloth. All of the lamps were lit and all of the chairs had been set at the tables, and the room was pleasantly warm and colored happily brown and red by fire from the hearth, but there were no patrons. When the bell chimed, and Arabella saw Harry pass through the door, her sour expression was quickly replaced by one of smugness.

"I'll be out of your hair in a day, he says," called Arabella. "I've got business at the castle, he says. Nothing's the matter, after all—what is that! A house-elf!" her voice went tight as the lumpy-headed Gilly wandered into the center of the room, eyes round with wonderment.

"Yes, a house-elf," said Harry, coming to stand at the bar. "Gilly. She's from the castle kitchens."

"From the castle..." Arabella trailed off, staring as Gilly crouched under the tables and scuttled around into the corners of the room. "What is it up to?"

"Harry Potter, sir!" cried Gilly, looking up at the underside of one of the tables. "Missus's elves have done very good work, sir. Gilly cannot find any dust! It is uncanny, sir."

"Uncanny," muttered Arabella. "You! Elf! Away from there. There are no house-elves here."

"Missus does not have any house-elves?" said Gilly; her face twisted in confusion. Then she zipped from under the table to stand meekly by Harry's side. "Gilly is sorry. It is only polite for Gilly to offer help upon visiting Missus's house."

"No elves," said Arabella firmly. She turned her glare on Harry. "If this is some sort of mischief I assure you—"

"I've got the post," said Harry. He had never been very good at Occlumency, but he knew enough of it now to clear his mind when he tried hard enough. He laid Arabella's brass key on the bartop. "I've just come to return your key, Miss Dumbledore."

"She's there then," said Arabella Dumbledore, pressing her lips into a hard line. "And I suppose you've become her creature as well. A post, you said, what's she having you do then, send the house-elves out after Grindelwald's lot? Clean them up? Show them the error of their ways?"

"I'm afraid," said Harry, "that I have no idea at all what you're talking about. Headmaster Dippet has offered me the position of Keeper of Keys and Grounds at Hogwarts School."

"Groundskeeper?" muttered Arabella. "And he's got an elf..." She slapped her rag down on the bar. "And Aurelia's had nothing to do with it?"

"Aurelia?" asked Harry.

"My blasted sister," growled Arabella. "So she hasn't roped you into her circus, then?"

"She hasn't," said Harry, sliding the key towards the woman who should have been Aberforth. "Erm, your sister is Professor Dumbledore? She wasn't at the castle. So she's gone after Grindelwald? That's an odd thing for a schoolteacher to do. Any particular reason?"

"I expect the Ministry of Magic has asked her to, that'll be why," said Arabella primly, and Harry knew at once that she was lying. The Professor Dumbledore who was a woman must have been involved with Grindelwald in the same way that Harry's Professor Dumbledore had been.

Arabella squinted at him. "I'm sure they wouldn't like it known that they asked for help from a schoolteacher, so I wouldn't go around telling tales, Mr. Potter."

"I wouldn't," said Harry. He gestured at the key. "If it's all right, I think I've missed supper at the castle. If you've got anything left over, I'd take it in exchange for the remaining time on my room."

"Nonsense," said Arabella, staring at the little brass key. "Left over. I've got a hot pot in the cooker. Hasn't been touched." She put together a bowl of stew that looked like mutton and carrots and potatoes and slid it, steaming, over to him. Sighing, she ladled out another, albeit a smaller one, and peered over the bar at Gilly. "Come, elf. Sit."

Gilly's eyes went soggy once more. Harry shut his own for a moment, holding his composure as best he could. Though he felt a surge of affection for Arabella at the gesture, he really did not want Gilly to break out in tears and ruin this entire reconnaissance operation. "Yeah, come on, Gilly."

"Harry Potter, sir is not only kind himself," murmured Gilly, hoisting herself onto a stool and staring at the bowl of stew reverently. "But Harry Potter's friends show Gilly great kindness, too!" Then the house-elf squealed at such a high pitch when Arabella offered her a small wooden spoon that Harry thought the glass panes of the inn's small windows would crack.

"I wouldn't call us friends," said Arabella, attempting to hide her smile at the house-elf's antics. "But you are as welcome here as any wizard."

Gilly beamed through her stew.

Harry ate slowly. He made some idle commentary. He told Arabella briefly about his interview and the castle tour. He enquired on the state of business, to which Arabella replied that the harlot who ran the Three Broomsticks had a monopoly on good customers because of her location on the high street, and the only sort of fellow who wanted to come to the Hog's Head Inn was the wrong sort of fellow and Arabella Dumbledore would just not abide by that. Gilly remained quiet but trembled in her seat like an excitable puppy when she was served seconds.

"So that's what the professor looked like when she was younger?" said Harry, as casually as he could. He pointed with his spoon at the portrait on the shelf behind the bar. "Headmaster Dippet said she would be back by the start of term feast, but I'm not sure if I'll be able to recognize her."

"You've met the rest of the staff," said Arabella. "Aurelia will be the only one you don't recognize." She had ladled herself a bowl of stew, resigned to having no further custom tonight, and was picking at floating bits of celery in the broth.

"I suppose," said Harry. He did not want to ask the next question, and he could already feel his heart start to clench and his chest tighten, but he had to, so he did, "So you're the proprietor of an inn, and Professor Dumbledore is a Hogwarts professor, but, er, what's your brother do?" It was an innocent enough question on the surface.

"He's," began Arabella, dropping her spoon, and turning to stare at the portrait, "He's at St. Mungo's."

"He's a healer?" said Harry, battling anguish. It was hard for him not to look at the woman, now. Or it may have been more difficult to look. He didn't know. He stared into his empty bowl at the dregs of broth and shreds of mutton.

"No, Albus is laying in a bed with half of his limbs blown off," said Arabella harshly. "That's what you wanted to hear, isn't it?"

Harry's head snapped up. Arabella's wand was pointed at him.

"If you aren't my sister's," she snarled. "Then you must be Grindelwald's."

Stunned, Harry raised his hands. "I don't know what you're on about, Arabe—"

"Don't," growled Arabella, there were unshed tears at the corners of her eyes. "Don't lie."

"I'm not lying," said Harry. And he figured maybe it was just an excuse to tell someone, but the look on Arabella Dumbledore's face told him all he needed to know about her character. She was the same as Aberforth Dumbledore, held by the same ghosts. "I promise."

Beside him, Gilly had gone stiff, seemingly unsure of whether she should finish her meal, scamper away, or come to Harry's defense. He looked at her, his hands still in the air. "Don't be alarmed, Gilly. This is why I asked you that other thing before we came in."

"The secret," whispered Gilly, nodding.

"Secret?" demanded Arabella, her lip curling.

"Erm," said Harry. "You're really not going to believe me when I tell you. In fact, I would think you were barking mad if you did believe me."

"Would you?" said Arabella unflinching.

Harry took a deep breath, then slowly lowered his hands to the bar. "Gilly cover your ears."

"Yes, sir, Harry Potter, sir," squeaked the house-elf, clapping her hands against her skull and squeezing her ears down until they went pale.

Harry faced Arabella. Worst case she would call him a liar again and try to mangle him with a nasty curse. He'd been through worse.

And he needed some help.

Harry summoned what remained of his courage and said, "Where I'm from your name is Aberforth, and you're a grumpy old man who's fond of goats."