Child of Hogwarts, Part II: The Marauder Legacy

by AimeretVivre

Sequel to COH, Part I. Follows Harry through Year Three at Hogwarts. See Part I for the premise... With Remus Lupin returned to Britain and Sirius Black on the move, Harry, Albus, Minerva and Severus continue to adjust to their changing realities and prepare for an uncertain future... while the ghosts of their pasts refuse to lie dormant. Mentorship; Training; Adventure.

26. All Hallows' Eve

A/N: Hello again everyone! I don't have too much to say this time, except that I am striving to keep to my goal of reaching Christmas 1993 by Christmas 2016. I hope the fast updates will make readers happy.

This chapter is a bit heavy, and far longer than usual… because we are accompanying Harry and Albus to Godric's Hollow. In fact, it is the longest chapter I have ever written in this series – and likely to remain so. There just didn't seem to be a reasonable place to cut, as I didn't want to do Hallowe'en in two separate chapters. So I hope you enjoy it! Review responses to Chapter 25 readers are at the bottom, per custom.

Please read and review!

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DISCLAIMER: Any and all familiar characters and story lines are the property of the wonderful Joanne Rowling, in whose world I am honoured and privileged to have an opportunity to play for a while.

Chapter 26: All Hallows' Eve

The weather that heralded the end of October was a perfect manifestation of Severus' mood.

He took to prowling the ramparts late into the night, staring into the thunderous clouds and almost daring the icy rains and howling winds to defeat him. It was foolish, he knew. He only ever gained sopping robes and the occasional need for Pepper-Up from his nightly wanderings, but he could not bring himself to stop them.

He told himself that he was looking out for trouble: the sporadic discoveries of irresponsible couples attempting to sneak away for some stolen privacy or would-be pranksters setting up to bring havoc upon unsuspecting classmates providing a reasonable cover for his ventures. Severus slashed house points and gave lectures and assigned detentions, and he congratulated himself on his excellent ability to sniff out trouble.

He told himself he was keeping an eye out for Sirius Black; watching the grounds for a sign that the murderer had entered them once more – that he might be within striking distance. And he congratulated himself on his foresight, and his admirable diligence where the Ministry were so woefully lacking.

Because he could not admit that he walked the silent corridors and frigid battlements to keep as many floors as possible between himself and his bed.

He would not admit that he knew she'd be waiting, if he ever shut his eyes.

As she always was, when Hallowe'en drew near.

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Harry shook the rain out of his trainers, which were still saturated even an hour after his return to the warm. He'd never get used to the driving misery of October storms, no matter how much he loved Quidditch.

The term was flying by in a whirlwind of lessons, homework, training and meals. Harry could barely find time to sleep, let alone finish everything for his cramped timetable. Between the Time-Turner, the extra elective and Snape's continued instruction in wandless magic, he was feeling overwhelmed constantly. He had no idea how Hermione was handling her coursework at all, with twelve subjects to juggle. Of course, she also didn't have Quidditch on top of the lessons either, so he supposed they were near evenly matched.

The little stream of water pooled on the floor of the boys' dormitory, and Harry felt slightly guilty for the mess he'd created that some unfortunate elf would now have to mop up. Sighing, he heaved himself off the edge of the bed and padded on his freezing bare feet into the loo, retrieving a cloth to wipe up the puddle.

'Oi, coming?' Ron called, sticking his head through the open door and frowning as he spotted Harry knelt on the floor. 'What's up?'

'Water,' Harry grunted, pushing to his feet again. He tossed the sodden rag toward the laundry pile on top of his training robes, and ducked into his trunk to rummage about for some socks before his toes froze off.

'Right,' said Ron, leaning against the door frame. 'Well, you'd better hurry. Hermione's going spare – says she's miles behind. She wants to do that essay for Flitwick tonight. Doesn't think they'll be time over week-end. I tried to talk her round, but she's dead set. So either come and back me up or come anyway, because I haven't got one line written yet and she'll chew me out else.'

'Yeah, alright,' Harry agreed, shoving a fresh pair of shoes on in place of his poor flooded trainers. He ran a hand through his still-damp hair, wishing he had time for a quick shower first. But Ron was tapping his foot. Harry knew he was still in a high temper from earlier that evening, when he and Hermione had got in yet another row over her cat, Crookshanks. Ron was insistent that the animal wanted to eat Scabbers, and Hermione refused to discuss it. He, Harry, had come up to change partly just to get away from the shouting.

'I'm coming, I'm coming,' Harry grumbled. He snatched up his Charms textbook and a fresh roll of parchment, and followed Ron down the winding staircase.

Hermione was seated at one of the work tables in the Common Room already, a pile of textbooks stacked on a corner, the Charms propped open against them and half a foot of neatly-written essay already begun in front of her. Her bushy brown hair looked slightly electrified from strain, and Harry could see darkened smudges under her eyes. Suddenly, he felt rather more put-together than he had five minutes before.

'There you are,' she said in an irritated voice, as Harry and Ron fell into chairs beside her.

'Sorry,' Harry muttered, shifting the books a little so he could fit his own parchment on the table too. 'Had to get out of those training robes.'

Hermione frowned. 'He's working you into the ground,' she opined, scrutinising him. 'You'll be half-dead by the match if Wood keeps this up.'

Harry shrugged. 'We're flying brilliantly though,' he pointed out. 'Great practice today, even with the storm. And it's our last chance for the Cup – I get it.'

'It's Wood's last chance,' Hermione contradicted, dipping her quill rather ferociously in its ink pot. 'You'll get four more years, if you manage not to kill yourself trying to win this one.'

Harry and Ron exchanged an exasperated look over Hermione's head, but Harry – wisely – did not argue back. It wasn't worth it, when Hermione was in one of these tempers.

'So, where'd we leave off?' Ron redirected in a would-be cheerful voice, keeping one arm discretely between Hermione and his fully blank essay.

They spent an hour or so working together on the assignment: something which generally consisted of Hermione dictating important passages from the text or recounting portions of Flitwick's lesson, while Ron and Harry tried to copy her words precisely. Harry was slightly less married to Hermione's interpretation than he might have been in the past, having had a head-start on Charms work this year with Minerva over the summer. He contributed his own bits every once in a while, and mainly tried not to fall asleep and blot his increasingly untidy writing.

The Gryffindor common room was noisier than even the usual Saturday evening. The weather was too tempestuous to accommodate students outdoors, and most of the House was gathered in the warm, circular room instead: chatting with mates, playing at chess or gobstones, laughing shrilly while Fred and George recounted some adventure in stage-whispers by the fire or (in rare cases) working. The flurry of surrounding activity made it even harder for Harry to focus on his essay.

'Harry?' Hermione called. He started, shifting back from his absentminded gaze toward the fire. From the expression on Hermione's face, he was fairly certain it wasn't the first time she'd tried to get his attention.

'What?' he asked, rubbing a hand over his eyes and scooting in a bit closer to their table.

'I said,' she repeated with a little sigh, 'I think that's all we'll need, unless you think we ought to include the counter-charm for the Freezing Spell… but as we only got to that on Friday and he hasn't set the reading on countering it, I thought it might be too much.'

'No, I don't think we need it,' said Harry quickly. 'Let's leave it here.'

'Cheers!' said Ron in relieved agreement. He let his essay furl up with a sigh, massaging his right hand with his left.

Hermione was already sifting through her tottering pile of books. 'Well, I think we ought to start in on Arithmancy then, Harry,' she told him as she searched. 'We're not likely to get much done tomorrow.'

Harry groaned. Arithmancy, as he'd feared from the start, was proving to be his most difficult subject. They'd spent most of September reviewing mathematics concepts, which Harry had found extra challenging after a two-year break from maths lessons. To his delight, Hermione had been right about the pure-blood students' knowledge, and Harry rather enjoyed being on the better-end of the class while some of the Slytherins – including Draco Malfoy – were struggling worse than him. But everyone was on near-equal footing now, and Professor Vector had moved them into applications at the start of the month. They'd been learning to set complex equations to historical trends, which was supposed to help them predict future happenings. Every lesson, she had students practise the method on the board and explain it to the rest of the class, drawing from the assignment she'd set them to do the lesson before. Though Professor Vector was fair, and did not openly ridicule her students the way that Snape so often did, Harry still found the experience highly stressful.

'Hermione, can't it wait?' Ron complained, watching Harry's expression. 'You've got to take a bit of a break, we've been at it most of the day.'

'No, Ron, it can't!' Hermione snapped back. 'We'll be out nearly the whole day tomorrow, and then there's the feast in the evening. When do you propose we finish everything?'

'Ooh, right, Hogsmeade. Excellent!' Ron remembered, his face brightening. Then he looked sideways at Harry. 'I still think its mental they won't let you come, mate,' he said in sympathy, shaking his head. 'We'll bring you loads of sweets back though – as much as we can carry.'

'Thanks,' Harry said with a weak grin.

Hermione glanced around to be sure nobody was paying them any attention, then leaned closer to whisper so that only Harry and Ron could hear. 'Are you still spending the day with the headmaster?'

Harry nodded. 'I think so,' he muttered back. 'He hasn't said otherwise, at least. We'll be back for the feast though.'

Hermione nodded slowly. Her brown eyes were searching his face with a curious amount of feeling that almost made Harry uncomfortable. He could tell that she wanted to say something else, perhaps something reassuring… but he was grateful that Ron spoke first. He wasn't sure how he felt about Godric's Hollow; and he was certain Hermione's question would address his mixed emotions.

'Let's do Divination next then, if we have to keep going,' Ron said, shooting Harry an odd glance as he straightened out of the huddle first. 'I can't help much on Arithmancy, obviously.'

'You don't help much in Divination either,' Hermione said waspishly, but the corners of her mouth were twitching as she sorted through her pile of notes. 'Ridiculous subject. Pass me that star chart, Harry – she's asked about the positioning of Venus in this…'

The three of them worked their way through their assignments for several more hours, until Harry's eyes felt so heavy he wondered if someone hadn't spelled them so. Even Hermione was having to cross out mistakes in her Transfiguration essay as they finally decided to call it a night, long after most of the other students had gone up to bed. They gathered up their piles of materials, and shuffled toward the opposite staircases to the dormitories in near silence – completely spent. Only the thought of his gloriously warm, soft bed kept Harry putting one foot in front of the other as they climbed the long staircase.

When he reached the four-poster, however, there was a note propped against his pillow, addressed in familiar, narrow slanted writing.

Dear Harry,

I shall meet you in the entrance hall tomorrow morning at 10:30am for our excursion. Though the weather is expected to brighten, please dress warmly as we will be out of doors much of the day.

Yours, truly,

Albus

Harry read the short note three times over, though its contents were far from earth-shattering. He felt an odd thrill of mixed excitement and dread rise within him.

It was real. It was happening.

Tomorrow, he would be visiting his parents' graves for the very first time. Visiting his home for the very first time since he had left it a dozen years ago.

No matter how hard Harry focused on his Occlumency that night, no matter how exhausted he was from Quidditch and lessons and everything else, he suddenly found it nearly impossible to get to sleep.

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The day dawned brighter than the past week – a break in the stormy weather at last. Harry felt jittery as he climbed out of bed, still fighting that odd mixture of emotions that had haunted him through the night. He stuck a hand out one of the Tower windows to judge the temperature. Still chilly, though definitely an improvement on the past few days.

'Mornin,' Ron greeted him sleepily, hauling himself out of bed as well. They were the last two to rise in the dormitory – unsurprising, given how late they'd stayed up working.

Harry heard Ron's stomach grumble before he could even reply. 'Hungry?' he asked with a laugh.

Ron clutched at the front of his faded pyjamas. 'Starving,' he moaned. 'Get a move on, breakfast is probably half picked over by now.'

Harry rolled his eyes as he snatched a towel and fresh robes from his wardrobe.

Twenty minutes later, he and Ron plopped down on the bench next to Hermione in the Great Hall. The room was full of excited chatter, as most of the older students compared their agendas for a day outside the castle. Ron entered almost immediately into a debate with Dean Thomas over the merits of Fizzing Whizbees, and Harry found his gaze drawn toward the high table, where the headmaster was seated in his high-backed chair.

Albus was looking at him. He gave Harry a small smile as their eyes met, and Harry tried to return it.

'Eat something, Harry,' Hermione encouraged him, pushing a platter of scrambled eggs closer to his place.

Harry scooped a bit of the eggs onto his plate obediently, but didn't move to eat them. His stomach was somersaulting worse than it did before a Quidditch match.

'You okay?' Ron asked around a mouthful of sausage, frowning at Harry's untouched food.

Harry shrugged. 'Fine,' he grunted. 'Just not that hungry.'

'You need to eat, Harry,' Hermione insisted gently. 'Go on – just have a bit of –'

'Hermione, I'm not a toddler,' Harry spat at her. Across the table, Dean and Seamus exchanged raised eyebrows. Harry felt instantly a bit ashamed of himself, as Hermione went pink.

'Sorry,' he said in a much calmer voice. 'I didn't mean to snap.'

He forced a forkful of eggs into his mouth as a gesture of goodwill, and Hermione's expression softened.

'It's alright to be nervous,' she told him gently, when Dean and Seamus had gone back to their own conversation. 'I'm sure I would be too.'

Harry shook his head. 'I'm not nervous, exactly,' he confided. 'I'm more… I don't know. I can't decide if I'm glad I made Dumbledore promise to take me, or wishing I'd never even thought of the idea.'

Hermione smiled. 'That's alright too,' she assured him. 'And Harry, if you don't want to go… I'm sure Professor Dumbledore will understand. You should only do it if you're ready.'

'No, I want to go,' Harry said quickly. 'I… I need to go, if that makes any sense at all.'

'All the sense in the world,' Hermione replied with another sad smile. 'We'll see you at the feast, then.'

Harry nodded, as most of their class that was headed to the village began to gather their cloaks. Hermione squeezed his arm gently before she moved to retrieve her own, and Ron clapped him once on the shoulder as Harry walked the two of them toward the entrance hall.

The entryway was crowded and chaotic with all the students queued up to have their names cross-checked by Filch against the list of those with permission to visit Hogsmeade. Harry endured sympathetic comments from many of his classmates who were headed out for the day, and the usual taunts from Malfoy and his Slytherin cronies. He found that none of it really mattered to him today. All he could think about was that he would be meeting Dumbledore in less than an hour.

He waved Ron and Hermione out with the others, and trudged back up to the dormitories to get his own travelling cloak. Following the headmaster's advice, he chose the fur-lined one for their outing. He felt strangely comforted wrapped in its warmth… remembering it had been a gift from Dumbledore and Minerva.

'All set?' Albus greeted him, as Harry alighted from the grand staircase at ten-thirty.

'Yes,' Harry agreed. It irritated him that his voice was higher than usual.

Dumbledore smiled. 'We must walk through the gates,' he informed him. 'And then I can apparate the both of us to the village. I shall use a patronus, of course, so you will not need to feel the Dementors' effects.'

Harry nodded, allowing Dumbledore to lead them from the castle. He didn't say much as they crossed the grounds, but the weight of the headmaster's hand on his shoulder comforted him all the same. The bright silver phoenix glided in front of them as they made their way through the iron gates, keeping the chill at bay.

'Just here will be fine, Harry,' Albus said, when they'd crossed into the street from the grounds. 'Hold tight to my arm now.'

Harry took the headmaster's proffered forearm, gripping tightly. He felt the familiar squeezing sensation as Dumbledore turned them into nothingness, before his feet slammed hard against muddy earth and he felt the headmaster steady him before he could topple over to his knees.

'Thanks,' he said, a little breathless as he straightened up.

They were in a small garden, alongside a very old church. A fountain was playing in front of him, and Harry could hear birds singing softly from the trees. The village was fairly quiet for a Saturday morning. The high hedgerow hid the street from sight, but Harry could hear the occasional rumble of a distant car through the green.

'Do you want to see the house first?' Albus asked kindly, when Harry had got his breath. 'It is a little ways outside the village, but we could come back to see the churchyard and then have tea and a spot of lunch in town.'

'Alright,' Harry agreed. He wasn't quite ready for the graves yet… somehow, he hadn't anticipated that they'd be apparating straight to the church. He wanted some time to get his bearings first.

Dumbledore guided him through a high gate, and onto the village high street. Harry looked around curiously. There were lots of small local shops, and a few pubs and restaurants tucked in between. Some of the villagers were darting between the storefronts, all in Muggle clothing. Harry looked down at his own cloak with mild apprehension.

'Do not worry,' Albus said gently, reading Harry's concern. 'I have charmed both of us. They will not be able to tell.'

'Oh, right,' said Harry. He tried to smile, but he couldn't quite manage it.

'Come,' the headmaster beckoned, leading Harry to the right. 'The cottage is down this way.'

Harry recognised the street from his forays into the memories. It was long and narrow, lined with little cottages all made of a similar red brick.

'The house is still there?' he asked Dumbledore, as they made their way down the street. 'I though Hagrid said it was destroyed?'

'It remains, in part,' Albus confirmed. 'There was significant damage – to the front entrance and the back of the first floor, in the room where Voldemort's final curse was cast.'

Harry frowned. 'And nobody has fixed it since?' he clarified.

'No,' the headmaster said. 'Although damage inflicted by dark magic to physical objects, unlike damage to the human body, can often be fixed, the wizarding community made a decision in the wake of your parents' deaths not to commence repairs on the cottage.'

'Why?' asked Harry curiously.

'They have left it as a sort of monument,' Dumbledore explained. 'A tribute to your parents' sacrifice, and to your own miraculous survival. And also as a reminder of the costs of the last wizarding war. A sentiment that many in our present world would do well to remember, as we allow prejudice and the stirrings of injustice to gain a foothold too often, even after so many years of bloodshed. It is a great tragedy of humanity, that we are as yet determinedly blind to the lessons of history, and thus too often doomed to repeat our mistakes. Of course, you could elect to make repairs on the house when you come of age, should you wish to. The cottage, as I think I may have told you, is in your name now that your parents are gone, and is part of your inheritance.'

Harry was silent. He didn't really know what to say. He was not sure he liked the idea of his parents' home – the happy house that he'd seen in so many of those memories – remaining blown apart for the rest of time. Meanwhile, he sort of understood what Dumbledore was saying; that the cottage could have some value in its current state, for wizarding history, at least.

Dumbledore led them all the way up the street, to the very last house. The gate that Minerva had passed through when she'd come to visit Harry after his birth remained, though rusted a bit with age. The front garden and the little walk were quite overgrown; the wild nature of the surrounding country reclaiming the property in the passing decade. The house, as the headmaster had told him, was half-destroyed. There was a gaping hole in the upstairs rear, where Harry supposed his nursery had been, and the cottage was missing its front door. Ivy grew unchecked over the crumbling bricks. Harry was surprised that – as much as he felt a connection to this house from afar – seeing it now… it just felt sort of empty. Other.

'Place your hand upon the gate,' Albus invited him, nodding toward the rusted wrought iron.

Harry gave him a curious look, but followed the instruction. He set his hand on top of the gate, wrapping his fingers around the iron. As he did so, a little sign upon a post popped up out of the ground. Harry leaned in to read the inscription.

On this spot, on the night of 31 October 1981,

Lily and James Potter lost their lives.

Their son, Harry, remains the only wizard

ever to have survived the Killing Curse.

This house, invisible to Muggles, has been

left in its ruined state as a monument to the

Potters and as a reminder of

the violence that tore apart their family.

All around the edges of the little official sign, however, were other messages, scrawled in different coloured ink – clearly by the hands of dozens of visitors. They were all messages of hope, and gratitude, and Harry felt his eyes water as he read them through.

'Do you see?' Dumbledore asked him.

'There's so many,' Harry replied in surprise.

'This house is a famous place, Harry,' the headmaster told him seriously. 'Today, perhaps, more than any other day of the year. In fact, Godric's Hollow is a very popular spot for visitors at Hallowe'en. Witches and wizards come frequently to pay their respects. Your parents' sacrifice, and your own, is not forgotten.'

Harry looked wildly around, half-expecting to see wizards popping up all over the street.

'But… no one else is here today,' he pointed out.

Albus smiled. 'No,' he agreed. 'When you made this request of me, I paid the village a brief visit myself. I set a ward that would give us some privacy for the day. I did not think you needed to share your own first visit with any admirers.'

'Thank you,' said Harry with a small smile. He looked back at the sign and all its messages. 'It's nice, in a way,' he opined. 'I'm glad they wrote these things.'

Dumbledore squeezed his shoulder.

'Can we go in?' Harry asked, nodding toward the ruined house.

The headmaster shook his head. 'I would rather we did not,' he said. 'The cottage has not been entered in over a decade, and I would wager it is far from stable. You could be hurt. And none of your parents' belongings remain in the house, in any case. I had everything removed to their vault at Gringotts shortly after their passing.'

'Oh,' said Harry, slightly disappointed.

They stood for another few minutes, Harry drinking in the little cottage and cementing the image in his mind. It made him sad to see it ruined this way – although he'd known it would be. It was hard to reconcile this desolate place with the happy little home he'd seen in the Pensieve… with his father pushing through the door laden down with Christmas parcels… or his mother digging through kitchen cabinets for potions… There was nothing of life in this cottage now. It was just another ruined building. Another casualty of a war he could not remember.

'Are you ready to go?' Dumbledore asked gently at last.

'Yes,' Harry said, turning his gaze from the house. 'I want to see the churchyard.'

The churchyard was small, and quite old. The crumbling stones dated back so many centuries that some were too weatherworn to discern the dates at all. Harry knew that the village had been a mixed settlement for many years, and as he walked through the rows at Dumbledore's heels he recognised many wizarding names among the markers. It was quiet in the churchyard, and oddly peaceful – not nearly as creepy as Harry had imagined, never having entered one before. The grounds were well-kept and tidy, and Harry could tell by the smattering of wreaths and plants that many of those interred here had frequent visitors. He wondered if anyone, apart from himself, had ever come to pay respects to James and Lily.

'It is just here,' Albus said softly. 'In the next row.'

Harry's heartrate picked up a flutter as he followed Dumbledore's direction. Though he had begged for this trip… though he had felt so deeply that he needed to see… now, standing in this churchyard, he was no longer sure he could do it.

He stopped between two headstones, suddenly finding it hard to breathe. His gaze darted around the graveyard, looking for a way out as his chest tightened…

'Harry?' Albus asked, stopping in his own step a bit ahead of Harry and turning back with a small frown.

Harry brought his eyes up to meet the headmaster's, who seemed to read the plea immediately. He closed the distance between them in three long strides, crouching down slightly so they were on eye-level.

'I – I don't want to,' Harry whispered between his hitched breaths. 'I changed my mind. I can't do it. I –'

'Sshh, child, it's alright,' Albus said quietly. He took both Harry's hands in his much larger ones, holding them firmly. 'Just breathe. Relax. We will not go unless you are ready.'

It took Harry the better part of five minutes to bring himself under control, gasping his way toward calm again. Dumbledore did not speak while Harry mastered himself, but merely remained crouched in front of him, holding tightly to his hands. The iron grip grounded Harry: gave him something to focus on while he tried to stem the sudden onslaught of panicked reservations.

At last, his heart returned to its normal state, and the tightness in his chest seemed to loosen. Harry relaxed his own tight grasp on the headmaster's fingers, and gave a small nod.

'Alright,' Albus said gently, raising himself to vertical once more. He released Harry's hands, but kept close to him as he walked them forward together, toward a large, white marble stone.

The marker was beautiful, in a simple way. It was just a curved headstone – no angel set atop or intricate carvings decorating the surface… but the marble gleamed as brightly as polished silver. His parents' names were carved into it, side by side in death as they had been in life. He read the dates curiously. His mother had been older… by nearly two months. He wondered that he'd never known that before.

'The Last Enemy that Shall be Destroyed is Death,' Harry read aloud from the inscription beneath.

'Corinthians, 15:26,' the headmaster supplied helpfully. 'Paraphrased, slightly.'

Harry frowned. 'Did you choose it, sir?' he asked.

'I did,' Dumbledore confirmed. 'It is one of my favourite biblical lessons.'

'Why? What does it mean?'

'It is a promise,' Albus explained. 'A promise of eternal life – a grace and goodness beyond this world, where no darkness can claim victory. Your parents lost their earthly lives in the war against darkness, Harry. But that does not mean that they were defeated. If your soul is pure and your heart is true, then evil can never triumph at the close.'

Harry did not quite know what to say to that. It was one of those times where he found the headmaster's enigmatic answers slightly over his head. He shuffled forward instead, wanting to touch the marble. It was cool beneath his fingers. Harry wondered morbidly if his parents were the same temperature, so many feet below. He felt odd.

Should he speak to them, or something? What did one do, visiting a grave?

It felt odd to do so in the headmaster's presence; like he would be acting quite silly, talking to a stone. He knew Dumbledore would never laugh… but he was still a bit embarrassed by the thought.

'I'll give you a moment alone,' Albus said solicitously, though Harry did not know how he'd read his mind without holding his gaze. 'I shall be just over there, when you are ready.' He gestured in a diagonal to Harry's left.

Harry nodded, and Dumbledore squeezed his shoulder once before walking away. When he could no longer hear the headmaster's footsteps, he crouched low to the ground, laying his palm flat against the headstone.

'Hi Mum, Dad,' he muttered, so quietly that he could barely hear himself. 'I'm Harry. Harry Potter, though I suppose you already know that.'

He sighed, wondering again whether he was being an idiot.

'I don't really know how to do this,' he said aloud, as it was the first thing that popped into his mind. 'I don't know whether you can hear me… or if you're listening or what not. I just… I wanted to see you today. Or not really see you, I guess… but see this place. See home. I wanted you to know that I –' he swallowed hard. 'That I think about you a lot. Not just today. I've been seeing you in memories lately… from Albus and Minerva, and Remus and Aberforth. I miss you. But I want… you know, you should know that I'm okay. Most of the time, anyway. And I know what you did for me. And also,' he paused, brushing his sleeve impatiently at his eyes.

'I love you,' he finished in a whisper.

He pushed himself up from his crouch, looking down at the white marble again for a moment. And then, quite suddenly, he knew he wanted to leave.

He made his way between the headstones toward the headmaster, who was crouched low in front of another white marble marker. Dumbledore straightened as Harry reached him, and he realised that Albus had been laying a wreath of white roses against the stone. He glanced curiously at the name.

'Kendra Dumbledore,' he read out softly. 'This… this is your mother?' he asked solemnly. He remembered in a rush that Dumbledore had told him his mother was buried in the village too, and chided himself for failing to think about it before now.

'Yes,' Albus whispered beside him.

But Harry was still looking at the stone. To his surprise, it was a double-marker, just like his parents'. Above the inscription – another biblical one, by the looks of it – a second name and set of dates were inscribed.

'There's… there's another name,' said Harry in confusion. He moved closer to the stone. 'Ariana…' he read. He scanned the listed dates of birth and death, so few between. He turned a grave face to the headmaster.

'My sister,' Dumbledore confirmed. He reached out an aged hand to touch the marble, tracing Ariana's name.

'She was so young,' Harry breathed quietly. He knew he sounded horrified, but he could not help it.

'Yes,' Albus agreed in a whisper. 'She was but fourteen. Hardly older than you.'

'I – I'm sorry,' said Harry softly. 'I didn't know.'

Albus sighed. 'You could not have, child,' he assured him. 'There are very few who do, after so many years. I never speak of her. The memories are…' he swallowed, uncharacteristically lost for words.

'I never speak of her,' he repeated.

Harry was biting his lip. Hesitantly, he took a step forward and slid his much smaller hand into Albus's. He gave a slight squeeze, echoing the headmaster's comfort at his own parents' grave.

'You don't have to, sir,' he said quietly. 'If it's… we don't have to talk about it.'

Albus gave him a small smile. 'Perhaps I should,' he acknowledged. He glanced at the darkening sky for a moment, then sighed.

'But first, I rather think we ought to get in the warm,' he said, sounding a bit more himself. 'Perhaps tea and something to eat in the village? There is a pleasant sort of pub not far from here.'

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Albus led Harry into a cosy sort of pub just across from the church. The place was busy in a steady sort of way, but not overly crowded. A pleasant middle aged woman in a frilly apron seated them at a little table in the back, and Albus ordered tea and two plates of Shepherd's pie for the pair of them. He waited until she'd returned with the pot to turn to the difficult subject.

'I am sure you have questions,' Albus acknowledged at last. He did not really wish to talk about his family. Least of all his sister. But he could tell the awkwardness was preying on Harry's mind, even if the boy was too tactful to broach the subject. Sure enough, Harry gave a slightly guilty jump.

'It is alright,' Albus assured him. 'You may ask. I will answer… unless I have a very good reason not to. You have earned the right to a little reciprocity, I think.'

Harry hesitated, fingering the rim of his tea.

'What… what was she like?' he asked at last. 'Ariana?'

Albus almost winced at the name, but he tried to stem the emotion. He had told the child to ask his questions, after all. So he forced a sad smile.

'She was sweet,' he said honestly. 'Most of the time, she was sweet and very kind. She was my father's favourite, and the only one of the three of us who resembled him. She loved animals. We had cats in the house growing up, and goats. My mother was Muggle-born, and her parents had been goat herders in Wales. She had a penchant for goats' milk. My father brought a goat home for her as a gift the day my brother Aberforth was born, and from then on we always kept a few in a paddock behind the house. Aberforth and Ariana had charge of them together. She loved to play with them. My brother still keeps goats at the Hog's Head. I think out of nostalgia, although I have never asked.'

Albus smiled at the recollection. And he realised, faintly, that he had not spoken so much about his sister in decades.

'Was she younger than you?' Harry ventured. 'Did she go to Hogwarts?'

'Yes,' Albus said heavily. 'And no. She was the youngest, four years my junior. Aberforth was between us, but he was always much closer to Ariana growing up than either of them were with me. Aberforth and I were educated at Hogwarts, as you know… but Ariana was not able to go.'

'Why was…' Harry began, looking puzzled. And then his expression grew sad. 'Oh,' he said in realisation. 'She was a squib?'

Albus shook his head. 'No,' he clarified. 'She was a witch. A most powerful witch, in fact. She showed magic even earlier than myself, from almost her very first hours. But she became… ill, when she was about six years old.'

Harry frowned. 'She was ill?' he repeated. 'But… I don't understand. With something the magical world can't cure? Like what Remus has?'

Albus considered. 'Somewhat,' he allowed. 'Similar in that there was no known cure for her condition, as there is no cure for Remus's disease. Even in the magical world, there are some illnesses that cannot be cured, and some injuries that cannot be undone. Wounds inflicted by dark magic, for example, are often permanent. Your scar is a good illustration. While there are many potions and spells that can treat scarring, there is nothing that will work on your scar because it was inflicted by dark magic of the highest degree. Even I am unable to remove it.'

Harry grimaced, and Albus smiled a little. 'That is not a terrible thing, Harry,' he assured him. 'Scars can have their uses. And sometimes, even the injuries and illnesses we can treat magically we should not.'

Harry frowned again. 'Why?' he insisted innocently. 'Wouldn't you want to fix someone, if you could?'

'Of course,' Albus replied. 'That is not exactly what I meant. But though we can "fix" many minor illnesses and injuries at once, it is not necessarily a good thing. If you are constantly consuming Pepper-Up Potion for every sniffle, for instance, your body does not develop the antibodies required to fight simple infections on its own. Sometimes, it is better to ride out minor illnesses, to allow yourself to build up defences that might become useful should you come down with something more serious. On the other hand, wizards – particularly wizarding children – ' he shot a twinkled-eye glance at Harry pointedly – 'who know that cuts, bruises and broken bones can be mended magically in a trice are far more likely to comport themselves with reckless abandon than their Muggle counterparts, who must spend weeks or months recovering from such injuries.'

'I guess,' said Harry doubtfully. 'But I still don't understand… how can wizarding medicine be so advanced at treating so many things, and then not be able to help at all with others?'

'It depends on the nature of the injury or illness,' Albus explained. 'Healing magic is complex – far too much so for one afternoon's discussion. But injuries sustained by dark magic or inflicted by a dark creature are more difficult – and sometimes impossible – to treat. You have experienced that yourself, recovering from the Dementors. Mundane Muggle illnesses we are very capable of dealing with. Many of our potions will cure a mild illness in seconds, or at the very least completely abate the symptoms. Much depends on timing, of course, as the illness becomes harder to treat the longer a wizard waits to seek the remedy. Potions like Pepper-Up are designed to nip early illness in the bud before it grows too serious. Which is why we are always nagging you to come forward if you are feeling unwell,' he added with another significant look. Harry pinked a bit.

'Very serious Muggle illnesses,' Albus continued, 'Like pneumonia or septic infections, for example, are much more effectively treated with potions and healing than with Muggle medicine. We are also able to use our own magical reserves to counter the illness, and thus we tend to recover much faster than our Muggle counterparts. But where the illness is magical in nature, and attaches to or attacks the magic of its victim, treatment becomes much harder. It can take many years to develop a cure for a magical disease. Sometimes, the remedy is only a treatment, rather than a true cure. Some of our diseases, like Mumblemumps or Dragon Pox, are similar to Muggle afflictions in their course of infection. A wizard can grow very ill – some older wizards even succumb to Dragon Pox, if they contract the disease late in life – and many are highly infectious. There are treatments available, and usually one will not catch the disease a second time once he has recovered from the initial illness. But there is no curative potion which can provide instant recovery, as there is in the case of many mundane diseases. There are other conditions, magical afflictions, which are permanent in nature. Remus suffers from such an affliction… as did Ariana.'

'What…' Harry hesitated, looking a bit frightened. But Albus knew what he was going to ask. He'd known they would get there eventually. And he'd thought very carefully about his answer.

'I will explain it to you,' Albus informed him, saving Harry the question. 'But I would like some information from you in return.'

Harry bit his lip. 'Alright,' he agreed, hesitantly.

They took a short pause in the heavy conversation, as the barmaid returned with their steaming plates of pie. Albus thanked her as she set them down, and refilled each of their mugs with a discrete wave of his palm.

'Tell me, Harry,' he said, once they'd had a chance to taste the delicious luncheon, 'When do you think you first performed accidental magic?'

Harry stared. 'Well… I guess when I was a baby,' he said with a shrug. 'I mean, I don't remember it, obviously, but from those memories you gave me… I must have done by the time I was four or five months, right? Sometime by Christmas, when you came to mind me.'

Albus smiled. 'Perfectly true,' he allowed. 'You performed it quite early. Like Ariana, and myself for that matter, you were hardly in this world without magic in some sense. I suppose I should have asked my question more precisely. I wish to know, when you were at the Dursleys… when is the first time you can recall something unusual happening when you were angry or upset?'

Harry seemed to contemplate the query. 'I was three, I think. Maybe four,' he said at last. 'I remember I was supposed to be fetching the milk and putting it away for Aunt Petunia. The ice box was old then – it had this really high latch. And the milk bottles were heavy. I tried to hold them in one arm while I opened the door… and I had to get up on my tiptoes and pull really hard. The door sort of popped back at me, and I fell. One of the milk bottles flew backward – and I remember thinking it was going to spill everywhere and the glass would break, and Aunt Petunia would be so cross at me that she'd lock me up the rest of the day… but somehow, the bottle sort of froze in the air. Only for a moment.' He smiled a little at the memory. 'Anyway, I sat up again and kind of plucked it from the air. When I stood up, Aunt Petunia was standing in the door, and she was furious.'

Albus's eyes hardened. 'Did she do anything in response?'

Harry swallowed. He looked down at the table as he spoke now, tracing patterns in the wood. 'She… she locked me in my cupboard,' he admitted at last in a whisper. 'That's where I slept, before the letters from Hogwarts started. The cupboard under the stairs. She and Uncle Vernon used to keep me locked in there when I was bad, sometimes for days.'

Albus felt fury consume him, though he had suspected as much from the day he collected the child from Privet Drive… from the moment he'd felt the dark atmosphere in that terrible place; the shadow of cruelty that had occurred there, and the barest hint of what might have happened, had Harry's own perseverance not triumphed where his poor sister's could not. And he remembered the shouting match with Severus, just before Harry spent his week at the Dursleys this past summer…

'They kept him in a tiny cupboard under the stairs until the day his first Hogwarts letter arrived. At times, he was locked in there for weeks on end…. They actively sought to stifle his magic – keep him so browbeaten and downcast that it would be snuffed out of him… as if such a thing were possible. His worst punishments were the result of his earliest signs of accidental magic.'

Albus reached across the table and stayed Harry's fidgeting, laying his fingers over the boy's.

'You should have told us, Harry,' he told him seriously. 'The moment you got to Hogwarts. I would never have permitted that level of cruelty. It was unforgivable.'

Harry kept his eyes down. 'I thought you knew,' he said quietly. His tone was not quite accusatory, but the vulnerability pierced Albus far more effectively than shouting.

'How could I, child?' he asked.

'My letters,' Harry clarified. 'The first one… it was addressed to "Harry Potter, the Cupboard Under the Stairs,"' he explained. 'That was the day they decided to move me into Dudley's second bedroom. I guess they must have thought you knew too, and were scared you might get angry with them.'

The headmaster shook his head sadly. 'All first-year letters are addressed by magic,' he explained. 'There is a registry, which automatically records the names of all British and Irish magical children as they are born. It is enchanted to send letters to witches and wizards of wizarding parentage the year they turn eleven, offering them a place at Hogwarts. The letters themselves are also enchanted, to note when they have reached the eyes of their recipients. If the child does not receive the letter, the registry will send additional correspondence – increasing in frequency and volume until one letter reaches the student. For students who have Muggle parentage, the letters appear in the Deputy Headmistress's office, and she coordinates a visit from one of the professors to the Muggle-born student. Otherwise, we check the registry only at the end of July each year, to ensure that all students have been reached and we have the replies. That is, of course, why I sent Hagrid to speak to you on learning yours had not been read.'

Harry looked up with wide eyes. 'Oh,' he said simply.

Albus smiled sadly. 'Indeed,' he agreed with a nod. 'An unfortunate oversight, in your case. You were raised by Muggles, and yet you are not Muggle-born. Nor were your aunt and uncle ignorant of the magical world. It should have occurred to me earlier… but I never dreamed that Petunia would go so far as to keep your true heritage from you. I have already spoken to you about the reasons behind your need to spend some time – however brief – at your aunt's house in order to ensure your continued protection… but in no way do I mean that to endorse the deplorable way that you have been treated there in the past. And I promise you, Harry, that had I known the extent of their mistreatment, I would have taken steps to remove you from Privet Drive many years ago.'

'I know,' Harry said, diverting his eyes again. 'But they didn't… I mean, I know it wasn't alright, what they did,' he hedged. 'I know that. It wasn't normal. But they didn't usually strike me or anything. They gave me loads of duties, and they would lock me away… sometimes restrict food or something. And they shouted a lot. Uncle Vernon could get handsy but… that was the only time I got really hurt.'

Albus's face was thunderous, and he knew he was not hiding it well. Other patrons in the pub were beginning to rub at their arms – the temperature seemed to have dropped.

'Physical abuse is not the only way to harm a child,' Albus said seriously. 'Harry, I –'

'Why did you ask me about the accidental magic, sir?' Harry interrupted him.

Albus frowned, wanting to press the point… but he could tell that Harry did not have this discussion in him today. So he returned, rather reluctantly, to his original intention.

'Your aunt and uncle,' he said, 'Tried to stop your displays of magic.'

It wasn't a question, but Harry nodded anyway.

'To do such a thing to a magical child is a grievous, heinous crime,' Albus explained. 'Quite as terrible as beating that child. Perhaps worse.'

'Why?'

'Because magic is innate, powerful and entwined with our very identity,' the headmaster said. 'It is as much a part of our basic selves as our hearts or brains – a part of our very genetic makeup. Magic cannot be "removed" from a witch or wizard, and we cannot survive without it. As you know from your studies in wandless magic, it is possible to overtax or even damage the magical core… and doing so causes great physical and mental impairment to the wizard.'

'Right…' said Harry, frowning. 'But how does that connect to the Dursleys? Or stopping accidental magic?'

'I'm getting there,' Albus assured him gently. 'Magic cannot be removed, or suppressed indefinitely. Magic needs an outlet; it craves expression. And trying to force it into dormancy… that causes irreparable damage. Of course, the only one who can truly do this is the witch or wizard themselves. That is why those who aim to force their children – or those in their care – to stifle their own magic commit such a terrible crime.'

'What do you mean?' asked Harry, his frown deepening.

Albus sighed. This conversation was more difficult than he had imagined. 'It was common once, or more so… many years ago. As you know, before wizards went permanently into shadow with the passing of the Statute of Secrecy, we lived alongside Muggle society. Wizards were often persecuted for their magic – particularly children, who were not yet able to control their gifts and far less capable of getting themselves out of difficulty when they were caught. Many magical children were conditioned to hide their magic; to suppress it. Sometimes they were pressured by their parents or the community to do so, other times they were driven to it through their own experiences with intolerant Muggles. The tragedies of their experiences were a driving force behind the global movement to separate the Magical world from the Muggle. And the shroud of secrecy was largely successful in this regard: instances of magical children rejecting their magical cores decreased significantly.

'But it still occurs, on occasion. Even in our modern world. Usually it happens where a child undergoes serious mistreatment – physical or psychological – and associates that abuse with their own magical powers. It typically happens when the child is quite young. A split occurs within the magical core itself, and part of the magic begins to obscure the rest. The magic fights for expression; for release. And another part of the magic obeys the child's desires, working constantly to suppress its other half. The inner turmoil can drive the child to madness… and greatly destabilises their magic. Over time, the affected witch or wizard may lose all control of their powers as the war within their own core intensifies while their magic grows. The results can be devastating. Most who suffer from the condition do not survive it.'

'You….' Harry looked ill at the thought. 'Your sister, Ariana… she had this illness?' he guessed.

'Yes,' said Albus heavily. 'Ariana began to suffer from it when she was six. She never recovered.'

'But... but how?' Harry asked in horror. 'You said your parents were magical. Why would they do that to her? Why would she want to suppress her magic?'

'Another pot, dearies?'

Harry jumped at the interruption, and even Albus himself started slightly. The barmaid's smile faltered as she took in their tense expressions. She looked uncertain.

'Yes, that would be lovely,' Albus said in a deliberately easy tone.

She nodded a bit hesitantly, but hurried off for the kitchens with their empty plates. Albus and Harry sat in silence until the barmaid returned, setting a steaming pot of earl grey between them. He thanked her, and waited until she'd bustled off again before answering Harry's query.

'It was not my parents who caused Ariana's illness,' the headmaster explained as he poured them each a fresh cup of tea. 'The events which precipitated its formation happened on the third of August, 1891. It was my tenth birthday, and my mother made teisen mel for tea. It was always my favourite. I had a fondness for sweets even as a boy,' he confided with a twinkle.

But Harry, anticipating the ending to this tale, did not smile.

'We all knew from babyhood that we were magical, of course. And I had – forgive me for the seeming immodesty – prodigious control over my magic, even quite young. I was caught up in my abilities, and I entertained Ariana at the table by changing the colours of the cakes. She was fascinated by it. She loved violet. Everything in violet. That day, she had a violet party dress, and a violet bow in her hair. She refused to eat until I'd made every one of the cakes violet too. She clapped every time. She was only six.

'After tea, my mother sent Ariana into the back garden to play while she tidied the house. My father took Aberforth and me into town for a treat… most of what I know of that afternoon, I learned much later.

'Ariana was picking flowers by the back hedge. They were all white and yellow – little wildflowers, you know. But she wanted them in violet. She tried to change them, as I had changed the cakes. And, somehow, she succeeded, though she was still so young. She picked a bouquet of wildflowers and she changed them one by one… humming while she played.

'We lived in a mixed village, with many Muggle children. The Muggle part of town was not particularly prosperous, and there were sometimes gangs of teenagers that made trouble in the neighbourhood. Three older Muggle boys of twelve or thirteen heard Ariana in the garden that day, humming while she picked the flowers. I suppose they were curious, or perhaps looking for trouble… In any case, they spied on her through the hedgerow. And they saw her change the flowers.

'The boys pushed their way through the hedgerow and tried to force Ariana to show them how to do the magic trick. But of course, she was only a child. She did not really know what she was doing, and she could not explain it – least of all to the Muggle teenagers. When she could not show them how to imitate her trick, they became angry. They tried to stop her doing it instead, and the argument grew violent. Very violent. Ariana was badly injured before my mother realised what was going on.'

'That's… that's horrible,' said Harry, looking green.

'Yes,' Albus agreed seriously. 'The back garden was fairly large, and it took my mother some time to hear the commotion. She scared off the boys and brought Ariana into the house, and called for my father immediately. My sister recovered physically in hours, with healing magic and potions. It was not until months later that we realised… that the extent of the damage to her magic and psyche became manifest. When it did, everything changed. My father was inconsolable. He went after the Muggle boys who had attacked her and took vengeance. He was a good man, but the realisation that he would lose his daughter drove him out of his own mind. He was thrown in Azkaban for his crime, where he died several years later.'

'Why?' asked Harry furiously. 'He was protecting his family… he was getting justice for his daughter. They'd tortured her! And the Ministry punished him, for wanting to make it right?'

'Taking revenge is not making things right, Harry,' said Albus gently. 'No matter how much we may want it, or even deserve it. I understand precisely the terrible rage that consumed my father. I felt no small measure of it myself – that day, and many days since. But taking our revenge will not return to us what has been taken. It only spreads the cycle of destruction and tragedy.'

'But still,' Harry insisted. 'You would think the Ministry would at least have recognised that he couldn't be thinking straight…'

'They did not,' Albus said, 'Because they did not know. My father could not tell them what had happened to Ariana; what she had become, as a result of the attack. The Ministry would have taken her away. Children like Ariana are very difficult to handle – very difficult to control. They do not understand what is happening to them. They are afraid of the magic, and yet it possesses them: always at war with itself within its host. At times of stress or unsettlement, the magic busts out in great force, often without the child's knowledge or consent. It is devastating in its destructive power. And Ariana, who was a powerful witch already, had more terrible power than the average child in her unfortunate position. She could be deadly, and she would have no way to stop it. She presented a great threat to the Statute of Secrecy, and the Ministry would have had her locked away… until the dark power took her permanently. So my father protected her secret, even at the cost of his own life.

'My mother moved house when my father was sent away. You can imagine the scandal that his arrest produced – particularly given the nature of his offence. There were reporters crowding our doorstep daily, trying to interview my mother. Neighbours shunned our family in shock and disapproval. My mother grew worried that the stress would worsen Ariana's condition, which would be dangerous not only to her but to everyone around her. Aberforth and I were still quite young, we were no real help, and my father was gone.

'She took us here – to Godric's Hollow. It is a much smaller hamlet than Mould-on-the-Wold, and we knew nobody in the area. Though the scandal did not entirely leave us, it had been a few months by the time we arrived and wizarding news moves on quickly. My mother hoped the relative quiet of this village and the old magics seeped within it would calm Ariana and protect our family's secret. She did not go out of her way to make acquaintances with the other families in the hamlet, and she was very careful to tell my brother and myself never to speak of Ariana's condition or of what my father had done. My mother dedicated her life to keeping my sister content and safe, and for the most part she was successful. My sister lived far longer than many in her condition have managed. But the strain of controlling her rages and living in the constant shadow of such a terrible secret took its toll on my mother. She died very young, as you saw.'

'That's terrible,' said Harry quietly. 'What happened to Ariana, when your mother passed away?'

'I had just left Hogwarts,' Albus said. 'I returned to the village to care for Ariana, and for Aberforth, who still had three years remaining at school. But Ariana died at the end of the summer. She did not live to reach fifteen. My brother has never recovered from her death… nor has our relationship, I am sorry to say. Quite understandably.'

Albus could tell that Harry wanted to ask the follow up… wanted to know what had happened at the end. But he did not, and Albus was grateful. He could not share that part of the story today. But he wanted Harry to understand why he had told him about Ariana.

'I have confided this story to you for two reasons, Harry,' he explained. 'The first being that I feel, after asking so much of your confidence over the past two years, that you had more than earned some of my own trust in return.' Harry flushed a little and Albus smiled. 'The second,' he continued, 'Is that I wished for you to understand. I am sure you feel I am often telling you that love is the most important and most powerful of all magics; but it is true. Love like your mother and father had for you can do wonderful, incredible things. But so too can vicious hatred and intolerance cause its own terrible destruction. We are – all of us – engaged in the universal struggle to ensure love will triumph over hate. And as in all wars, there are casualties that cause us great heartbreak. Because of evil and darkness, you have grown without your parents to guide you. Because of hatred and intolerance, I have lost a sister. But we must never allow hatred to cloud our judgment or distort our ideals. Do you understand?'

'Yes,' Harry agreed quickly. 'I do, sir.'

Albus reached out a hand, brushing the top of Harry's head affectionately. 'You are an incredible child,' he said fondly. 'You faced cruelty at a very young age, and you were raised in the shadow of people who showed you nothing but neglect. It is…' he trailed off, hesitating. 'It chills me to the very soul, to imagine that you too might have succumbed to their mistreatment; that you could have become what my poor sister had – afraid of your own gifts, creating your own force of self-destruction. That you persevered, Harry; that you were able to rise from the ashes and keep your sense of self… and that you did not give in to darkness in the process; that you are still good and kind and pure of heart… you can have no idea of what a miracle that is.'

Albus paused. 'You asked me once, nearly two years ago now, what I saw when I looked in the Mirror of Erised,' he reminded him. 'I told you I could see myself holding a pair of woollen socks.'

Harry looked embarrassed. 'I shouldn't have asked that,' he said apologetically. 'I didn't really think about it much at the time… I suppose I was too distracted; seeing my family for the first time. But later, I realised it was rather a personal question. I shouldn't have pried.'

'Perhaps,' said Albus lightly, though his twinkling eyes conveyed his forgiveness. 'But I quite understood the sentiment. After all,' he admitted, 'We share very similar desires.'

Harry gave him a small, sad smile. They finished their tea in silence.

Albus knew that there were parts – important parts – that he had deliberately omitted today; portions of the story Harry was not yet ready to know and Albus was not yet ready to tell.

The details of the horrible affliction that had consumed his sister like a parasitic growth… how the Obscurus had killed his mother… how frustrated and trapped he'd felt, forced to stay in the house and see to her continued care while the world moved on around him, without him…

How Gellert had entered his life at just that vulnerable moment… the fascination Albus felt for the young, talented wizard with revolutionary ideas… the fascination that Gellert had had with Albus, and with Ariana…

His brother's disgust with the both of them…

How his own foolish ambition had driven them all to duelling that late summer's afternoon, setting Ariana off… how in the ensuing chaos someone had destroyed her utterly…

His own deep, all-consuming fear that it had been he who had done it.

Today was not the day for such revelations. And yet, Albus felt a slight lightening in his chest – as if speaking of his sister had eased some of the burden her passing had left on his soul.

'Harry,' he called quietly, drawing the boy's gaze up from his tea again as they both neared the end of their cups. 'I must also tell you that this information is not widely known. As I said earlier, I do not often speak about Ariana. The memories are quite painful. There are few alive who know the story of her illness or death, and even now it would not be wise for the Ministry to ascertain her condition at the time. Therefore, I must ask you to keep what I have told you in confidence.'

'Of course, sir,' Harry agreed at once. 'I won't tell anyone. I won't even tell Ron and Hermione.'

'Very well,' said Albus with a small smile. He pushed his empty tea cup away, and set a few Muggle notes under the saucer.

'Well, if you are ready then, we should get on. It is already later than I had anticipated.'

Harry stole a glance at his own wristwatch, his eyes widening. 'Half four,' he said in surprise. 'Are we going back to the castle, then? There's a few hours left before the feast, but I suppose the others will be back from Hogsmeade soon.'

Albus could tell the boy was not quite ready for the abrupt transition back to reality.

'No, we are not returning just yet,' the headmaster told him. 'There is one other visit I wished to pay first, if you are willing. I sent word that we would be along around four, so we ought to make haste.'

Harry cocked his head curiously. 'Who?'

'I think, Harry,' said Albus, his eyes twinkling, 'That you would enjoy meeting Bathilda Bagshot.'

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Harry was quiet as the headmaster led him out of the little pub and down the high street of Godric's Hollow, back toward the lane which had taken them to his parents' ruined cottage. His mind was still reeling with Dumbledore's tale and the many new pieces of information this afternoon had brought.

He couldn't decide whether he was grateful to have the knowledge. A part of him was pleased, and a little proud, that the headmaster had felt him trustworthy enough to confide these most personal secrets. He knew the conversation had been difficult for Dumbledore – could see the hesitancy in each sentence; the pain behind the revelations. And that same part felt nothing but empathy for the Dumbledore brothers, who had lost their parents and their sister and – like him – been created orphans far too early in life.

Another part of him was consumed with the horror of it all. That a witch could be so damaged by fear of her own magic… and that the result could damage her Core so completely as to actually prove fatal…

Most of all, it unnerved him to no end that there were things in this world that Albus could not fix. That he did not have answers to. He had known, of course, that many people had died in the previous war with Voldemort despite Dumbledore's leadership. His parents included. But that felt different, somehow. Wars were bloody, and people died. One man could not be everywhere; could not save everyone. But the story of Ariana Dumbledore had been different. She had been ill for eight years – dying for eight years. And she was Albus's sister. Surely, if there was anything that could be done for her, the headmaster would have stopped at nothing. Even being as young as he himself was at the time.

The idea of Albus as helpless… powerless to stop the advancement of his sister's condition… admitting that he had no answers…

It was unnatural. It put a crack in the image of the headmaster that Harry had always had in his head; added humanity to the omniscient old maje he'd grown to see as more than a protector, more than a mentor… to love, even, as family.

And that scared Harry. It almost, bizarrely, made him angry. Which in turn made him feel guilty – because why should he be angry with Albus, for being human? For having limits, and flaws, and questions… like everyone else? For showing…

Weakness. Was that why he felt this way, because this was a chink in the headmaster's armour? Because Albus wasn't supposed to have weaknesses, when Harry needed him to have all the answers; to be always in the right – always the strong one?

'It's just up here, on the left,' Albus informed him.

Harry jumped, jolted abruptly from his thoughts. He realised he hadn't been paying any attention to their walk. He felt his cheeks go pink with slight embarrassment.

'Right,' he said, nodding once in response.

Dumbledore paused, considering him with a slight frown.

'Are you alright?' he asked solicitously.

Harry nodded, but Dumbledore's frown grew slightly. His blue eyes pierced Harry's, and Harry pulled his gaze away quickly, not wanting the headmaster's x-ray examination to find his inner distress.

'I apologise,' he said softly. Harry's insides squirmed – maybe he had not been quick enough. 'I should, perhaps, not have given you so much information to consider at once,' Albus continued. 'This day was supposed to be for you, and your parents… but I fear I have cast a shadow over that ambition.'

'No, no Albus,' Harry said hurriedly. He forced himself to swallow his reservations, and force his gaze to meet the headmaster's again. 'I – I'm glad you told me, really,' he said, giving another sad smile. 'And it… it makes me feel a bit more… understood, I guess. To know you had family here too; that you understand what – what this place feels like to me.'

Albus smiled in return, laying a hand on his shoulder.

'Are you ready to meet Bathilda, then?' he asked, shifting into a more cheerful tone again. 'I ought to warn you – she can be a bit – '

But the headmaster's caution was cut off, as the front door to the nearest cottage burst open. Harry nearly jumped back again in surprise, but Albus's hand on his shoulder and the headmaster's slight chuckle calmed his nerves.

A little, stooped witch stood on the threshold, wispy white hair flying about her head in the chilly wind. She was tiny – maybe Harry's height, at most – with skin that was so mottled and thin with age that it almost looked like Aunt Petunia's blotting paper. She was ancient: much older even than the headmaster. Harry supposed he'd known that already, intellectually, but it was still odd to see.

'Albus!' she greeted him in a thin, reedy voice. She crossed her arms, leaning a hip against the doorframe. 'You're much later than I'd expected – I thought you might have forgotten the way.'

'Never, Bathilda,' Albus promised, inclining his head politely. 'We were merely delayed in the village. And I think you know –'

'Harry,' Bathilda interrupted before he could make the introduction properly.

With surprising speed for one so stooped and wrinkled, she tottered down the little brick steps and met them in the path, coming closer to peer at him. Harry was a bit startled as she leaned in to kiss him on one cheek, and felt himself flush.

'Er – hello, ma'am,' he greeted her back awkwardly.

She waved one age-spotted hand. 'Tosh, child,' she chastised. 'Call me Batty. My, but it's been years… you're nearly grown.'

'Not quite,' Dumbledore disagreed with a twinkle.

'I'm sorry,' Harry apologised, still slightly embarrassed. 'I wish I could remember…'

'And how could you?' Bathilda said, brushing aside his apology easily. 'You were only a baby. So sweet, and so much trouble,' she teased, brushing the tip of his nose with a finger. Harry felt his cheeks burn hotter at the familiar contact.

'You're exactly as I imagined,' she continued, looking him up and down in apparent approval, though her hazel eyes were slightly dimmed with cataracts. 'So like James… the spitting image. Except the eyes, of course. You have Lily's eyes.'

'Er, yes,' said Harry awkwardly, when Batty seemed to be waiting for a reply. She smiled at him.

'Well, come in, come in,' she insisted, flapping a hand to gesture them toward the little house. 'I've set some tea to boil, and I made Cauldron Cakes. The family recipe, Albus, so I know you'll like them.'

'My favourite,' the headmaster agreed easily.

He kept a reassuring hand on Harry's shoulder as the historian steered them both into the house and led them through to a sitting room. Harry looked around with interest. The cottage was comfortable and quite cosy, like he'd imagine a Muggle grandmother's home would be. The sitting room was slightly old-fashioned, with several sofas in a deep maroon fabric and a multitude of ornate chairs. There were gas lamps and candles burning on every surface – some quite precariously positioned… but Harry supposed Bathilda was used to balancing them properly. The shelves and tables were covered in mounds of books, many with notes and ribbons sticking out the top or shoved between pages. Research, Harry thought, remembering that this woman had authored one of the most important books of their time. The whole room smelled faintly of cinnamon and burnt sugar, making Harry's mouth water in anticipation.

There were photographs too: little people smiling and waving from many different corners. Harry smiled himself as he caught sight of one image on a bookshelf: his parents, seated together on a low garden swing, and himself between them, a happy and giggling baby waving both fists at the photographer. He sidled closer for a better look. Dumbledore too seemed to be interested in the photos on the shelves, while Bathilda had bustled off to retrieve the refreshments, still muttering to herself. He followed Harry toward the arrangement, his eyes searching the images. Harry saw them tighten slightly as he stared at one on the top shelf – a good-looking blonde wizard in old-fashioned, high-necked robes. Albus reached out a hand toward the photograph, and Harry wondered if it wasn't an image of a younger Aberforth, perhaps. He knew it couldn't be the headmaster, as Albus's hair had been an auburn colour in his youth.

Dumbledore looked sideways, catching Harry's curious look. He smiled. For once, however, the expression did not reach his eyes.

'A wonderful image of your family,' he said, nodding toward the photograph Harry had come to admire.

Harry grinned in agreement. 'It is,' he said. 'I haven't seen this one before. I wonder whether –'

'I took it,' Bathilda confirmed, stepping back into the sitting room and levitating a loaded tray before her. 'One of my favourites.'

'Mmm, and speaking of favourites,' Albus said lightly, clapping his hands together in enthusiasm as he preceded Harry back toward the sitting room table.

'Sit here, dearie,' Bathilda said to Harry. She tapped the cushion of the sofa next to herself, and Harry could not very well refuse her. He lowered himself hesitantly into the seat, hoping he did not look rude for his nervousness. Bathilda's constant gaze – though not unkind – was making him slightly uncomfortable.

'Are you liking school?' she asked him as she passed him a cup of tea.

'Yes,' said Harry with a tentative smile. 'It's been wonderful.'

'And what House are you in?' she asked keenly, playing mother to Dumbledore too.

'Gryffindor,' said Harry with a bigger smile. He took a sip of the tea, and lowered it in surprise. 'How did you know?' he asked in amazement, forgetting to be nervous.

'Know what, dearie?' Bathilda asked mildly, stirring a dash of milk into her own cup.

'That I took sugar and lemon?' he clarified.

Bathilda shrugged. 'A quirky talent of mine,' she admitted. 'Although, in your case, not a hard leap. Your mother took sugar and lemon in hers… your father lemon alone, unless there was whisky available. I guessed that you would be closer to Lily's taste. It's all in the eyes, you know.'

She winked one of hers. Harry, not sure if she was joking or not, stared between her and the headmaster. Albus shrugged, eyes twinkling.

Bathilda chuckled.

'So, Gryffindor,' she repeated, drawing Harry back into conversation. 'Not surprising. And I suppose you'll be a Quidditch player too? You've the build for it, and your father was always pressing on that score. I think he'd have had you on a broom from birth if you'd been able to sit up that early.'

'Harry is a Seeker,' Albus confirmed from his armchair. 'One of the best talents we've had in years, in fact. A hobby which gives me endless anxiety, I can assure you.'

'Are you?' Bathilda asked, looking very keen as she offered Harry the plate of Cauldron Cakes. 'Your father would be so proud. He was an excellent Chaser, broke about twenty school records in his time at Hogwarts. He probably could have played for England, if things had been different when he left school.'

Harry smiled more warmly, accepting a cake. 'I saw him play once, in a memory,' he confided. 'He was brilliant. It was Professor McGonagall's – she's very interested in Quidditch too. She's the one who got me onto the House team in the first place, though I was only in first form and wouldn't have been allowed, normally.'

'An indulgence for which I have never quite forgiven her,' Albus put in dramatically.

'Oh, enough from you,' Bathilda scolded. 'You'll never understand Quidditch, Albus. One of your few limitations, I'm afraid.'

Harry laughed in earnest. 'Did you play?' he asked Bathilda interestedly.

'Batty was one of the best,' Albus answered before the witch could reply. 'A beater, in her youth. She spent several seasons with the Holyhead Harpies after Hogwarts.'

'Second-oldest team in the league, and the best,' Bathilda confirmed loyally as she passed the plate of Cauldron Cakes to the headmaster. 'Would have stayed longer, if my dratted hip had held out.'

'Terrible development for Quidditch,' Albus opined with a shake of his head. 'Excellent news for academia, however.'

'Academia wasn't nearly as much fun,' Bathilda admitted with a shrug, choosing a cake for herself.

But Harry was struck with a sudden realisation.

'Wait a moment…' he said, considering Bathilda Bagshot. 'You reviewed Quidditch Through the Ages!' he said in surprise, and no small about of respect. 'Your quote's on the back cover.'

'I did,' Bathilda confirmed, smirking as she settled back against the cushions. 'A lucky coincidence, that my years in Magical History research have allowed me more authority to spout my opinions on Quidditch than six years in the professional league would grant. Well worth eighty some odd years of research, I promise you.'

Harry relaxed considerably after that. He found Bathilda Bagshot far easier to converse with than he'd anticipated. She was witty and at times a bit scattered, but largely had her faculties about her for someone so old. Her dynamic with Dumbledore was fascinating, and more than a little amusing. It was odd to think that this woman had known Dumbledore at Harry's own age – that she'd known him at Hogwarts, encountered him before he could do magic outside of school and watched him grow up. He supposed that Bathilda had to have known Ariana too, or known of her at least. But Albus did not broach the subject of his late sister again, and Harry – taking his cue from the headmaster – kept equally silent about it. Instead, they wiled away an hour and a half or so with Bathilda's inquiries about Harry's education and his life at Hogwarts, and Harry's questions about his parents and the time Bathilda had known them. She kept it light-hearted and fun, for which Harry was grateful – he had had quite enough of depressing memories for the day.

At last, Albus pulled a pocket watch from the inside pocket of his robes. He frowned down at it for a moment.

'It is getting rather late,' he said regretfully, stowing the timepiece again. 'I am afraid Harry and I ought to be getting back to the school.'

Bathilda nodded, rising from the sofa. 'You will come again?' she asked, leaning to kiss Harry's cheek again and then bending over to do the same to Albus before he could rise from the chair.

'Of course,' Albus assured her. He stood as she backed out of his way. 'And thank you for having us today, Batty,' he added with a twinkling smile. 'It has been a real pleasure.'

'Thank you,' Harry added as he gathered his own cloak.

'Oh, you're welcome anytime,' Bathilda assured him, smoothing out the shoulders of the cloak for him. 'It was so lovely to have a chance for a chat. Perhaps I shall make it up to the castle one of these days… if my old bones can take it,' she pondered aloud. 'I should like to watch you fly.'

Harry grinned. 'Our first match is next month, but the weather's always dodgy in November,' he informed her. 'You should come to the final, in May. It'll be warmer then… and you might be able to watch us win the Cup!'

'Consider it set,' Bathilda assured him, patting his arm.

As Dumbledore led Harry from the room, Harry's eyes roamed once more to the little set of shelves with the photographs and the happy image of his mother and father – holding him close on the swing.

But he couldn't help noticing, as his eyes found the shelves, that the image of the blonde boy had been turned around: the black velvet backing the only thing he could now see.

And he wondered, curiously, why it was that Albus Dumbledore did not wish to look upon it.

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Hallowe'en. How fitting.

Sirius had hardly slept last night, tossing and turning with nightmares when his eyes finally closed… consumed with rage when they were open. Twelve years… twelve years since the Rat had stolen everything from him. Twelve years that James and Lily had been rotting in the ground, while the Rat lived comfortably in the laps of better wizards, as he always had done.

No longer. No more.

Sirius spent much of the day prowling the edges of the forest, waiting for the opportune moment. He'd have to sneak into the village before nightfall; before the Dementors went on the hunt. But he'd have to be in the village late enough that the shops had been shut up, if he wanted to avoid attention. It would not do to pass the flood of Hogwarts students in town for the day.

He stayed on the edges of the forest nearest the border of the grounds – close enough to see the gate from a distance, but far enough from it that he could not feel the Dementors' presence. He watched throngs of students make their way back into the grounds as the sun drew closer to the horizon, talking and laughing with each other as they went. Just as the sky grew scarlet and he was preparing to make his way down the lane, two more people apparated to the front of the wrought iron gate: Dumbledore, who conjured a patronus almost instantaneously, and Harry, clutching the headmaster's arm. Sirius felt the familiar pang in his chest as he watched Albus lean down, whispering something he could not hear into Harry's ear. The boy gave a nod at the headmaster's words, and stayed close to the old man's side as the latter led them through the gates and out of Sirius's sight toward the school, keeping one ancient hand on Harry's shoulder. He wondered where the pair of them had come from: whether Dumbledore had accompanied Harry into the village, perhaps, to keep the boy safe from him; or whether they had been somewhere else entirely. Either way, it eased his worry just a fraction to see that Dumbledore had charge of Harry today… that the boy would not be in the Tower, where the Rat lay in wait.

He gave the headmaster and his godson a few minutes to get up the Hogwarts walk before he made a break for it, crossing the lane to the unenchanted wood on the opposite side. He quickened his pace as the path took him opposite the Dementors, trying to skirt their notice without allowing their influence.

It took him maybe half an hour to reach the village, by which point the sun had nearly set entirely. Up at the castle, Sirius knew, the students would be filing toward the Great Hall for the Hallowe'en feast – chatting excitedly and keyed up for the festivities. He wondered if Harry knew the tragedy behind today's gaiety; if the evening felt different for him, as it did for Sirius. Perhaps Dumbledore had taken him from Hogwarts for this reason… perhaps the headmaster, too, could feel the shadows of the dead today.

The high street in Hogsmeade was unusually quiet. Little signs hanging in the shop windows announced they were closed for the night, and even the pubs seemed subdued despite the holiday. Sirius supposed the constant presence of so many Dementors kept many villagers in their own homes during hours of darkness, not willing to make unsavoury acquaintance with the creatures in the street. He could feel their approach himself as he crept through the alleys toward his destination. His hackles began to rise.

At long last, he arrived outside Honeydukes Sweet Shoppe. The shop on the lower level was darkened: closed, like the rest of the street. But candles burned in the flat above, where Sirius could hear a wireless humming and the voices of the married shopkeepers squabbling over the preparation of supper. He was very quiet in his approach, not wanting to draw their attention.

Luckily, it still appeared the latch on the low basement window was faulty. Even with his clumsy paws, Sirius was able to jiggle the window enough to set the little catch swinging loose, and nosed the panes inward. The drop would have been easier in human form, but he could not risk transformation. Not here – with the Dementors drawing ever nearer… with his face plastered in every storefront. So he slid in muzzle first, taking the impact as lightly as he could on his four feet. The window shut with a muffled squeak behind him.

Once on the cement floor, Sirius had no choice but to transform. The passage could not be opened without thumbs, unfortunately. He shifted quickly and re-latched his point of entry before searching the floor for the hidden door, thanking Merlin again that the enchantment on its handle kept it from the notice of the shopkeepers. A glint of bright silver reflected from a cardboard box as he shifted packages aside in his search, and Sirius investigated.

A long carving knife… probably for pumpkins. Perfect.

He took the blade between his teeth. It might come in useful later.

Locating the edges of the passage entrance at last, he prised it open with less difficulty than he would have thought possible, and wondered in some panic whether the lack of the resistance he'd anticipated was because his own muscles were beginning to recover from their long period of atrophy… or because someone other than the four Marauders now knew of the passage's existence.

He slipped into the tunnel, shutting the trap door softly, and paused to contemplate the problem.

He'd chosen the passage over the front entry tonight for two reasons. For one, he was fearful that Dumbledore would have taken extra precautions with the main doors to the castle, particularly after his near-capture over the summer. Though he doubted this would necessarily bar his entry if he was transformed into Padfoot, he knew any delay it may cause increased the chance he might be spotted by latecomers to the feast. For another, he had been fairly confident that the passage remained undiscovered.

Was it possible that others knew? Did the headmaster?

Remus… Remus was at the castle, of course. He would know about the passage. And he knew about Padfoot – about all of them.

Had he told Dumbledore?

Somehow, Sirius doubted it. Remus had always been ashamed of what he was; always afraid that Dumbledore would withdraw his affection. It didn't feel like Remus, to admit that all four of them had defied the headmaster's trust. And even if he was wrong – even if Remus had told Albus – then, surely, he would have known by now. The posters would have shown him in dog form too; the Ministry would have spread the word. They had not. The secret, apparently, was safe.

Which was a good point, actually. If Remus had told the headmaster of the passages, there would have been signs. Somebody would have put up safeguards, or sealed the Hogsmeade entrance off. Sirius would have noticed.

He tried to shake off the momentary uncertainty, transformed back into Padfoot, and set off down the winding tunnel.

The passage was familiar, even after so many years. On four legs he was far faster than on two, and Sirius found himself at the way out earlier than he'd really anticipated. He stayed hidden in the tunnel for a moment, trying to discern whether anyone was roaming the corridors. Like entering the passage, exiting would require a human form. He calculated that it had to be nearing eight o'clock, which meant the feast would be underway… he would be safest trying to enter the Tower midway through, while everyone was down in the Hall and the staff was all in attendance.

It was difficult to tell through the stone, but he could not hear any commotion on the opposite side. He shifted back and pushed a cautious hand at the back of the hump, grateful that a spell was not needed from inside the passage. The stone slid aside at the pressure, and Sirius poked his head through carefully.

Deserted.

He threw himself through the narrow opening, already shifting as the stone slid automatically shut behind him. He padded up the corridor, feeling his heart rate increase as his destination drew closer.

Three flights.

Two.

He took the turn off the staircase at a run, galloping toward the Fat Lady's portrait. Just a corner away he ducked into an empty classroom, changing back to himself out of sight of the prying eyes of the portrait and shifting his long silver knife to his hand.

'Password?' the Fat Lady asked imperiously, narrowing her eyes as he approached her frame.

'Let me pass,' Sirius growled back.

'No password, no entry,' the Fat Lady insisted, brushing unnecessarily at her long skirts.

Sirius felt the blood pounding at his ears, his vision reddening. He was so close… so close… the red-haired boy would be in the Hall with everyone else. And the rat… the rat would be alone in the Tower. Asleep, probably. Thinking he was safe. Dreaming, perhaps, of how he'd sent his best friends to their deaths this night, twelve years ago. And Sirius was closer than he'd been since that day in Ireland; separated from him by six inches of stone… and one stubborn, arrogant portrait.

'Let me pass,' he hissed again, brandishing the knife threateningly.

The Fat Lady's eyes followed the gleam of the silver, but she puffed out her chest indignantly. 'No entry without the password,' she insisted. 'I do not care who you are. Access to the dormitories is restricted.'

This was his night. His revenge. He would not let this woman take it from him. He could not stand it…

'Let me pass, or I shall make you move aside!'

The portrait's eyes narrowed. 'I know who you are,' she warned him. 'You are Sirius Black – the escaped murderer. We've been told about you, you know. The headmaster told all of us months ago. If you think I will let you in, you are quite –'

'He's inside, you wretched woman!' Sirius snarled. His heart was thumping louder than ever, his vision reddening… six inches of stone… and he was to be thwarted by canvas?

'Nobody is inside the Tower tonight,' the woman said superiorly. 'Not Harry Potter, nor any other student. They are all at the –'

'He's here!' Sirius insisted. He rushed up to the canvas, pressing the point of his knife to a corner. The fabric stretched inward, threatening to rip where he pushed. 'He is inside. He breathes. He lives. And if you will not remove yourself from my path, I swear on Merlin's tomb that I shall cut this painting to shreds so thoroughly, they will not find even your wineglass remaining.'

The woman's eyes were steely now. 'No password, no –' she began again, but Sirius had reached his limit.

He slashed the knife through the air, tearing a gaping hole through the canvas. The Fat Lady gave a shriek of terror as she threw herself sideways, attempting to get out of the frame. Sirius still managed to slice off half her dress before she escaped. She tore off down the corridor, sprinting through the line of paintings, clutching at her shortened skirts and sobbing.

Sirius paid her no mind. She did not matter. The door was what he needed. And she couldn't take that with her.

He brought the knife swinging through the canvas over and over again, until the portrait was nothing but torn strips swinging from a gilded frame. The wall behind it, however, remained solid and whole.

'No,' he hissed, running his hand along the stones. He broke two long fingernails digging at the mortar, but he could not find a crack.

He was so close… but it appeared, without the guardian, the Tower door could not be opened.

Whirling in fury, Sirius stared up and down the corridor for the Fat Lady again. But she was long gone. Probably seeking refuge in some far-flung corner of the castle, or off to find –

The Headmaster.

Albus… damn it, he would be here, and soon. The feast would not last much longer, and there were portraits in every corner of this school. If the Fat Lady told another painting, or one of the ghosts…

He was lost. His revenge was lost.

Cursing himself for his moment of temper, he abandoned his fruitless efforts, and hurried for the stairs again, headed back to the one-eyed witch. He did not dare shift… the portraits might have awoken, with the Fat Lady causing her ruckus. If they spotted him, his disguise would be lost. But halfway down the grand staircase he hesitated.

If someone raised the alarm – and they would, thanks to his tussle with the portrait… Hogsmeade was not safe. Remus might break his silence when he saw that Sirius had entered the castle itself… and either way, the Dementors would be everywhere, swarming. He would be lucky to escape the shop with his life, and he would have to fight his way through their power to reach the shelter of the trees again.

No… he would have to risk the main entry. Would have to cross the grounds. It was the fastest way to the Forest – and the Forest was his only safe harbour.

He changed course, tearing down the flights of the grand staircase. He skittered a bit on the marble tile of the entrance hall, turning the door handle with a hurried yank when at last he reached the castle entrance. Even as he slipped through, bumping the door shut again with his hindquarters as he transformed on the steps, he could hear the thunderous rumble of hundreds of wizards gaining their feet and knew the feast had ended.

Dumbledore would know in moments that Sirius had tried to break in.

And Harry… Harry would be going back to the Tower… where the Rat remained.

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Review Responses, Chapter 25

Guest: Thank you for reviewing! Haha, I am sorry that your emotions took such a roller-coaster this chapter, but I am glad you enjoyed the ride. And I promise not to stop ;).

Valkyrie-Sythe: Thank you for your review! Yes, Snape is certainly a bit quick to forget himself here… but, on the other hand, his secret might have been exposed if he hadn't acted quickly to stop the Boggart's transformation. A bit of a sticky wicket, I suppose. Harry, certainly, agrees in the opinion that Snape's shoving him forward (just after essentially mocking him that he wouldn't be doing the exercise) is totally uncalled for. I leave it up to the reader's interpretation. Hope you enjoy Chapter 26!

Anyeshabaner: Thanks for reviewing! Very glad to hear you liked the chapter. And yes, for certain Severus is furious about Remus' lesson. He doesn't seem to enter at auspicious moments when Remus has boggarts loose in the room, now does he? And yes, Severus boggart is Lily's corpse, which is why he is so angry, so white-faced and so quick to throw Harry in front of him and prevent its complete transformation. As to Buckbeak, I make no promises (naturally), but I really felt for Albus in his moment of overwhelm here… not an easy first few days of term at all. Happy to hear you are enjoying the flashback sequences – I hope they help flesh out each of the characters a bit more. They are a part of the 'Marauder Legacy,' so we will certainly see further revelations as our story continues. Enjoy Chapter 26!

SpringRoll: Thank you for your great review! Very happy to hear you are enjoying the story so much thus far. On Sirius, I'm in somewhat of a similar place – I always liked Sirius, but had some mixed feelings about his character (particularly post book five). However, in writing him, I've come to love him immensely… and I shall be devastated should that time come to an end. Glad you liked the berry-induced flashback here, and I do apologise for choosing to cut it off at that particular moment. I actually had the reaction plotted out and nearly included it, but it felt like too much at this time… and there was just something intriguing about ending the dream with a reminder of how Minerva had also been the one to catch Lily and James (two others that were 'hers,' of course, and also in a room that was 'hers'). I'm hopeful they'll come a moment that I can work that in later in the grand scheme of the story, but if not I will post it as a one-shot after the fact. There are a few pieces I've cut that I'll do that with if there isn't a logical place to insert them later. Certainly, we will see more of Sirius and Marley in future. Though hopefully those will not be fever dreams.

Glad you caught the Easter egg on JKR's short! I hoped readers would understand the nod, but of course it's always a bit of a gamble if it's an outside-the-Seven reference. On your question of sighting in Little Hangleton… I was just a bit confused. The Muggle village Sirius raids here, though left unnamed, is meant to be rather close to Hogsmeade, which is near-canon: in the novels, Harry is told in his first Potions lesson of term that Black was sighted by a Muggle 'not far from here' (he is presumably passing through a Muggle village on his way to Hogwarts, as in the novel he breaks out of Azkaban about a month later than he does in this version). Albus's trip to Little Hangleton is something I added entirely, but I found fitted with what I thought Dumbledore was likely to do as part of his Horcrux theory investigation.

Haha, and happy to hear you liked the Severus anger this chapter… most certainly it will rear its head again (poor Harry, contemplating his upcoming 'detention'…). Twisted is, I think, an appropriate word for it – but certainly having the person he considers Lily's murderer so close at hand put's the need to protect her son in a position of further prominence. And on Lily… so many Lily Moments in these past couple of chapters. I feel like perhaps I should give Snape a bit of an emotional break: emotions, after all, are not his milieu. But I can't help it, the opportunities in an instalment so steeped in Marauder-era history are too forthcoming. I'm glad you liked the boggart revelation, and the answer last chapter to the 'How did Snape get Lily's hairs' question that has been looming since the earlier part of this book. That Chapter 24 flashback was one I could not wait to share, but found absolutely draining emotionally to pen. I needed like three days of rest to recover.

Finally, thank you for your well wishes! You are correct, I struggled with morning sickness in the beginning, but that has largely subsided now (thank Merlin). We are debating names at the moment, but we have a few strong contenders. Perhaps I'll put my favourites in the Christmas author's note for some feedback :). I think you're right – Christmas next will be a whole new (and hopefully wonderful) adventure, and I'm quite excited! James even more so… but then, he seems to have had a much easier time adjusting to his new fatherhood-reality than I have on my end! ;) There is a certain magic about the holidays for children that we can never quite keep hold of in adulthood.

Thank you again for reviewing, and I hope you like Chapter 26!

Guest (2nd Guest Reviewer): Thank you for your review! I'm very happy you liked the chapter so much – it's always wonderful to hear from satisfied readers :). The flashbacks (and particularly the relationships within) are always a joy to write, and I feel like it satisfies my own cravings for some romance in the story, without needing to pair up children in unsuitable adolescent relationships, haha. It's also fun to explore dynamics in new pairings… while I love James and Lily, of course, Sirius and Marley have an entirely different sort of journey that's just as interesting to create, at least for me. As to your query on the boggart… it is something I have also been pondering, and it is entirely possible that it may change in future, though whether in this particular book I cannot say. Stay tuned :).

And thank you for your well wishes! Yes, in some ways it does feel as though the time has flown by… we're actually just above three months away now (as I usually write my reviewer responses as they are posted and save them for the next instalment). Twins also tend to come a bit earlier than expected, so it may be even sooner. I've placed my bet on 18 March, but James thinks it will be the fifth. Frightening, but thrilling all the same!

I hope the short time between instalments is satisfactory, and enjoy Chapter 26!

Lavinia: Thank you for the complimentary review! Alas, if I were JKR, my life would certainly be much more exciting! But I'm glad you feel this project is doing her universe justice all the same. Yes, we will definitely see more of Sirius and Marley. I too am sad that we know their story does not have a happy ending… but, as with Lily and James, it is still fun to explore their connection. As to the boggart – I don't think it was far enough along in its transformation for Harry to really make that leap… even Remus doesn't seem to have realised what the boggart was becoming. That said, just because he doesn't realise it now does not mean that he won't in future… On Minnie and Albus, yes, Harry will definitely figure it out. He's already had some notion of what's up between them, but he's sort of not connected all the dots yet. We'll get there! :) Enjoy Chapter 26!

MoonshineMadame: Thank you for reviewing! Very happy to hear you liked Chapter 25. The boggart… yes, it was dead Lily. Of course, only Severus really knows that at this point – it all happened far too quickly for anyone else to guess what the boggart was transforming into (well, anyone who doesn't have the knowledge that we, as readers, do)… but of course that is why Snape thrusts Harry into its path – he doesn't want his secret to be outed, particularly to Harry and/or Remus, who would recognise Lily. I'm glad you liked this flashback! Everyone's memories have a different flavour to them… and Sirius and Marley are one we haven't really had together before. We will see more of their backstory in future. I hope you like Chapter 26!