Don't try to solve serious matters in the middle of the night.
— Philip K. Dick.
#
Interlude: Things That Go Ouch.
I've been sleeping! for hours and hours!
Sleeping was nice, like a cup of tea and a chat. Minus the tea, of course. And the chat. Or then again maybe not minus the chat, because before he'd fallen asleep the last thing he'd heard was a rather accusing voice asking a question he couldn't answer, and now...now there was something in his mind that hadn't been there previously.
Memories.
A little gift box of memories, like a chocolate assortment.
What have we got here?
I don't have a mum and dad. Just an aunt. And an uncle. And a cousin.
And they're all rubbish? Oh, that's shameful. Something ought to be done about that.
Her name is Hedwig.
That would be the owl. Aaaand...a great big delicious chunk of Diagon Alley: the wand chooses the wizard, does it?...and here's a squashed birthday cake...and
You're a wizard, Harry.
...
Okay, that one was sharp. Or maybe pointed was the word.
Indices of guilt and shame rising...
If you can hear me, I will figure this out, and I will make it up to you.
Come to think of it, he could start doing that right now.
He was lying in fragile comfort in a nice warm bed (with a roof!) in a room lit in near-invisibly-deep blues and reds, in which the snores of Neville Longbottom echoed like the growls of distant lions.
Trunk, where is it? Under bed. Leave bed, fragile comfort shattered for reasons to be identified later, pull out trunk in sync with snores of Longbottom so as not to wake anyone. Open trunk, feel around, probably under brass scales as they are noisiest thing available, yes, here is wand; sit on bed very carefully.
Having read all the coursebooks on the train, this should be easy...
Hold wand, so. Draw path in air.
"Lumos," he said under his breath.
And lo! there was...continued darkness.
Hold wand tip up to eyeball, not a glimmer. Right word, right motion, what's missing?
The wizard, of course. This is a host-guest issue. It's the host who does the business (and indeed needs to do some business, so think faster). Mind has knowledge, body does not, simply moving body around does nothing useful. Teach the body.
Tap head with wand. You in there, Harry? Pay attention, now. Wand does this — he traced through the pattern in slow motion, like a particularly graceful assembly-line robot — and you say Lumos.
Got that?
Here we go...
Wand-drawn path in air: "Lumos."
Aaaand...again, nothing, not a faintly glowing sausage.
Okay, open to suggestions. Anybody? Wake up, right brain!
Are you there, internal monologue? I take back what I said!
Whatever it was I said...
Physics isn't the most important thing. Love is. Feynman.
Oh.
Well, of course.
Hold wand, so; wand-drawn path in air—
You're a wizard, Harry.
"Lumos."
The sun came out.
Holy Zarquon's singing fish, whole room lit up like noon, panic panic panic, stuff wand under pillow, Gryffindor Tower In Flames, Sorting Hat Proven Correct, pull out again, look for off switch, more panic, stick bright end in mouth, are you insane? okay, tongue not vaporising, panic off, light not hot but can see inside of nose (mmm, wand tastes like holly wood, they could use this for those sweeping spotlights), mem: blow nose, how to turn it off?! Nox, yes?
"Nox."
Darkness fell, echoing purple.
If that was lumos I'd hate to see lumos maxima, and if I did it wouldn't be for long — no, no, rewind, check somatic experience log. Brightness was a side effect, byproduct of—?
Byproduct of utter joy.
The freed bird sings the wildest.
Said feeling would also tend to explain the tears running down someone's cheeks...
Well, good time to blow that nose, then.
#
Okay. Wand under covers, once more without feeling please?
"Lumos."
Oh, much better. Can you wax and wane? Yes? Cool. Focus? Very good.
He leaned out of the bed and played the tightly-focused light into the darkess underneath.
No, ahem, container under the bed. Good thing or bad? May suggest indoor plumbing, although who knows, medieval castle, more than one reason for narrow windows, one being to keep you from falling out...
Okay, going to have to go look.
Slip out of bed, tip-toe to stairs. Down down down to common room, wave wand about, lots of wall, no doors with meaningful icons of people with dots for heads, okay, keep going to exit.
#
"What are you doing out of bed?" said the Fat Lady sleepily. "Against the rules, being out of the dormitory."
Pictures that sleep, why do I always have to be on my way somewhere?
"Looking for a washroom," he said. "If there's one inside I didn't see it, is there one, do you know?"
"I've never been privy to such information," said the Fat Lady primly. A nostalgic look crossed her face. "Though I do remember little Albus Dumbledore asking me much the same question, many many years ago, so I doubt there is."
"Do you remember which way he went?"
"We're at the end of a hallway, young man. Options are a bit limited when you reach the end."
"" said the Potter, rotating away from the portrait carefully. "—When does the password change, by the way?" he added over his shoulder.
"Seven."
"Thank you."
Delicately and on tiptoe he went, waving the light from side to side, seeing nothing in the way of doors but the obviously wrong kind. Mirrors, yes, lots of mirrors, portraits, suits of armour whose empty heads rotated to watch him go by, the odd gargoyle, glints of yellow-green light at floor level just ahead—
"Oh, hello," he said to the cat.
A small scrawny dust-coloured model, silently sitting, watching him with a rather vinegary expression — still, no trouble, cats, cats weren't easy but they were simple, generally you just had to remember that your sole purpose in existing was to provide service to cats.
"Have you seen a washroom about?"
=(Slight narrowing of eyes, cynical amusement, stupid boys ought not to be allowed, ought to run you in for being out of dormitory...)=
"Or, failing that, a mop? Like a nice mop, me — no pride no shame, eh?"
=(Rear back: Absolutely not to be allowed!)=
The cat disappeared into the darkness.
Okay, no luck there, keep going...no, too far, double back, maybe try the sixth floor, that's ridiculous, it's a dormitory floor, they've got to have a whole bathroom complex somewhere, wait, what was that? sort of a King's cross barrier not-ness back there, double back again...
How could I have missed that?
Nice big door, labeled WASHROOMS.
He pushed it open and walked in. It contained exactly the sort of thing a reasonable person would expect: a little fluorescent-lit tiled foyer — strange, that, given the candles everywhere else — with sign ahead saying Please Leave This Area As You Would Wish To Find It, doors to the left and right with helpful icons on — well, no, not all that helpful really, little witch and little wizard, but which is witch and which is not? same cone-hat, same dot-head, same school robéd body, how are you supposed to tell, oh, wait, right-hand one's got shoes on, left-hand one doesn't, what's that supposed to mean? well, who's more likely to walk into a public lavatory barefoot? obvious, really...the slugs and snails set...
He turned left and faced the door.
There's a phrase for embarking on this sort of venture, what is it, oh yes—
He stepped into the unknown.
"Allons-y!"
#
And that was much better.
After washing what were presently his hands, he looked at himself in the mirror, adjusted his tie, wished for a comb, found one on the sink, used it.
More than better.
"Mirror, mirror, on the wall, who's the handsomest one of all?"
"Gilderoy Lockhart," said the mirror.
"Oh, who asked you," said the Potter, and stalked out.
#
In the little foyer he stopped to lean against the tiléd wall and tighten his shoelaces (yes, still in a world of magic), and it was then, after the reverberation of the closing inner door had faded, that he heard it.
At the edge of audibility, what is it? An intermittent, regular...something, a bit like the sound an alarm makes in between the whoops...very faint...
Stop. Listen. Concentrate.
Hold breath.
...
Bother. Whatever it was it was gone now.
He dropped his foot to the floor, and stepped out into into the hall.
And promptly ran into a monster.
#
"Ouch, ouch, ouch, ouch," said the Potter.
"Out of the dormitory in the middle of the night!" said the monster, and continued to drag him down the stairs by his ear.
"It's nearly six," said the Potter.
"An example must be made!"
"I was only looking for a lavatory," said the Potter conversationally. "Ouch, ouch, ouch."
Something burst into cackling laughter.
"PEEVES!" cried the monster, coming to a halt somewhere around the third-floor landing. The Potter could see the floor quite clearly, but that was about all, due to the awkward positioning of his head.
"What's that I — dungbombs! I just CLEANED THIS CORRIDOR! PEEVES! I'LL SEE YOU IN—"
"No teaching naughty words to students!" said the imp, flying in circles around them, although the Potter had to deduce this from the breeze.
"Dumbledore will hear of this!" said the monster.
Peeves blew a particularly enthusiastic raspberry.
Wet, too, most intriguing! thought the Potter. How does he do it?
"Arrgh!" said the monster, and resumed dragging the Potter downwards. Down down down they went, bottoming out at the entrance hall, then sidewise to a small and fishy-smelling room, where the Potter was slung into a chair opposite a desk.
The monster stepped behind the desk and the Potter got his first good look at him, in the light of a dangling oil lamp.
Oh, dear, he thought. Look at you.
Hunched shoulders, hunched back, knobbly hands (rheumatoid arthritis?), pouchy gray saggy face (edematic? cyanosis despite exertion suggesting heart disease and/or arterial blockage), breath coming hard and wheezily (indications of emphysema, COPD indeterminate but you belong in hospital, not at work...)
The as yet anonymous unhealthy monster flipped open a black metal box on the desk and took out a blank index card, and then took up a quill from a slot on this desk. "What's your name, boy? An' don't even think about lying!"
"Potter," said the Potter. "Harry James."
The monster's eyes flicked to the Scar, and the Potter managed to lock onto them on their way back down.
"Rules is rules," said the monster, staring at him.
"Quite right," said the Potter.
"Out of dormitory — in the old days it would have been a taste of the lash, today...today..." He was starting to look a bit blank.
The Potter said, "Being out of dormitory at five, messing about the corridors? Potter should be forced to get up at five every day and help clean the corridors."
The unhealthy monster said, "You should be forced to get up at five every day and help clean the corridors!"
"Oh no, not that!" said the Potter, maintaining his gaze. "Don't let the punishment fit the crime!"
"EXACTLY THAT!" roared the unhealthy monster, and the Potter looked down repentantly. "Let the punishment fit the crime!" The quill scratched furiously across the card. Interesting. Paperwork by hand? In a world of magic? Shoelaces notwithstanding... "You'll be hearing from your Head of House soon enough, cully! Now get out of my office, and stay out of my sight until tomorrow morning!"
The Potter got.
#
The Fat Lady looked down at him.
"Password?"
"Ouroboros — but don't open yet. May I ask you three questions? That was the first."
"You may ask me as many as you like, though I can't promise to answer them."
"This one's going to sound silly, but it's important. What's eighteen times seventeen?"
She gave him the eyebrow raised. "Is this a homework question?"
Bright smile. "Classes haven't started yet."
"Oh, well...eighteen times seventeen...one hundred and eighty plus...seventy is two hundred fifty, plus...fifty-six is three hundred and six. Why?"
"Generally people don't memorize past twelve times twelve, I wanted to see you work it out, and you did, and it was brilliant. Third question — what's your name?"
"Name?" she said, looking at him with puzzlement.
"Name. Everybody should have a name, what's yours?"
"My name is..." She blinked. "My name is...Marguerite du Mont."
But was it before I asked?
"Very happy to meet you, Madam du Mont. My name's Harry Potter, and we must talk again sometime."
#
Pink light was streaming in the tower windows when he got back to the dormitory. The Longbottom had stopped snoring but no one was quite awake yet.
He lay down on his bed.
There was a carving he hadn't noticed before, on the roof of the bed above the curtain rings at the foot end.
Ruhest Du Auch
Care is heavy, therefore sleep you,
You are care, and care must keep you.
What a sweet sentiment...
And the day finally began.
