"BY THE PENTACLE OF SOLOMON HAVE I CALLED THEE! GIVE UNTO ME A TRUE ANSWER." ― S.L. MacGregor Mathers, The Lesser Key of Solomon
…
Through The Black Door, Again
…
The first thing that Harry did was create a portkey. By Merlin, he would not be caught in another trap with no way of retreating. He took a coin out and began the incantation. After he placed the coin in his pocket, Harry paused and took one more coin, repeating the same procedure on it as well. Two portkeys. It never hurts being prepared. Sheepishly, he had bound both coin portkeys to 221B Baker Street. He simply did not know where else he could trust on being a safe place.
Right, after this 'rescue' mission, he had a task: establish another safe house.
But that could wait. Teddy might be in trouble. Then again, he might not be.
After the portkeys were safe inside two separate pockets, waiting to be activated, Harry apparated himself to Southern England, praying that Andromeda and Ted still lived in the same little cottage he remembered from when had unceremoniously landed there the night of his seventeenth birthday. Harry had, in his animagus form only, visited Ted in Hogwarts on a few occasions. But he had never been to his godson's home.
He flew over the cottage several times as a crow, noting the little bedroom window. He perched himself on the window sill.
The bedroom was very obviously a boy's, judging by the posters and the trainers peeking out of the closet. The bed had been slept in. But it was currently, worryingly, empty.
Harry could not curse as a crow, but the noise came out anyway as a rather perturbed CRAW!
Could he go inside? Could he ask Andromeda where Ted was? Maybe there was an innocent explanation to the boy's absence: he could be visiting friends, for example.
Harry inwardly cringed as he played out the scenario in his head. Andromeda would likely attempt to curse him on the spot, and Harry, with his 'Unbeatable Wand' that rather wanted him to end up beaten instead, might very well lose that duel. Then, there would be aurors called, and Harry would be hauled off to Azkaban, or worse, and Teddy would still be in trouble. No, Andromeda was out.
Harry could try to alert Hermione, and have her organize aurors to go after Ted in the Department of Mysteries. Harry almost transformed himself back, in order to apparate to Hermione's townhouse when he remembered: Hermione would still be in Murmansk. She was not due back yet, and if her flat was not empty, anyone could be there. Her daughter, her ex-husband, perhaps. No, Hermione was out.
Who else?
Sherlock, but Harry had no idea where the muggle might be. If he was not at 221b, Harry had no other way to contact the man. And anyway, dragging Sherlock, an unarmed muggle, through the Department of Mysteries sounded like it would do more harm than good.
He was alone. Somehow, even though he had been alone for many years, it felt constricting now, so suffocatingly debilitating.
The voice issuing from the wolf-patronus sounded again in Harry's head.
He could not waste time feeling sorry for himself.
He had two portkeys, and a cloak of invisibility. If the patronus message had indeed been a trap, Harry had equipped himself as well as he could manage to deal with it. Surely, with his cloak, he ought to be able to slip in and out of the Ministry undetected?
On the other hand, he was in such a poor relationship with his wand, that Harry was sure he would lose any and all duels he might encounter.
The solution was simple then. He would simply not duel. He would go to the Department under the cover of his cloak, get Ted out (if Ted was indeed there) and flee back to the safety of the woods as a crow. Good plan.
Living on the lam had taught Harry an extreme caution that bordered on paranoia. Alarm bells were ringing inside his head at the prospect of what he planned to do. It was actually not a good plan, but a bad plan, an extremely bad plan. A voice that still sounded like Hermione, all these years later, sounded in his head. But there was simply no other choice. No one else to turn to.
…
The dark corridors of the Ministry squeezed tighter and tighter as he traveled down, into the bowels of the Department of Mysteries. Harry could not believe he was here again. The painful memory of his mistake which had cost Sirius his life had flared back to life like an old, aggravated injury.
How young and stupid he had been. Well, he certainly wasn't young any more, but the jury was out on 'stupid.'
With his cloak, Harry had easily slipped by the Ministry night watch guard, a young man who, as Harry noted, was barely keeping his eyes open at his post. As he crossed into the Ministry, he felt the tickle of security spells in the soles of his feet. He did not set them off. His cloak, which deflected minor detection spells, was partly to thank for that.
As his foot had crossed the wavering boundary of Magus Transpicus, the spell so familiar to Harry, he felt the magic come up and prod at him, almost like a small terrier, trotting by to sniff his ankles. He had not told Sherlock for fear of sounding like a lunatic, but Harry could sometimes feel certain spells interact with him. He felt Magus Transpicus, then Hominum Revelio, and a slew of others all wave toward him. In his mind's eye, he projected the image of putting his finger to his lips, and shushing. The spells did not set off.
Whether it was due to the cloak's ancient magic or his own peculiar sensibilities, he did not know.
Down the clattering lifts he rode, which Harry was sure ought to wake up everyone in a ten mile radius, and then out to the miraculously empty corridor, where no aurors waited for him on the other end, and towards a door.
The door.
A plain black door, which had haunted him for twenty years.
Harry had the odd sensation of re-encountering a singular and peculiar situation which had not been lived, but rather dreamed. Deja vu, or something like it.
Harry had used this same plain, black door that led to the Department of Mysteries to reinforce the dark corners of his mind against invasion. At first, Occlumency had been a defensive tactic against outward intrusion. But over time, the configuration of corridors and black doors that imprisoned the worst of Harry's memories became so baroque and intricate, he sometimes had trouble recalling what was behind them.
Harry reached out his invisible hand under the cloak, his fingers hovering inches from the painted wood. He told himself he was feeling it out for spells, which might activate and trap him here in the Ministry. He felt nothing, but still his fingers waited, not daring to press forward.
In his mind, the same door, and ersatz replica, shook in its hinges. What was beyond it?
Ted might very well be getting devoured by the fish-tank brains while you dither over a door. Steeling his nerves, Harry shoved his outstretched hand against the wooden surface.
SNAP!
The sick light from the Cruciatus…
Ginny's red hair spilled on the shattered flagstones…
An eye, with a goatish pupil and rotting feathers, staring at him from the dark corners of Grimmauld place.
Harry wheeled around, trying to locate the source of the noise. It took him several panting seconds to realize: there had been no noise.
The plain black door which he had constructed to protect his mind from Legilimency was standing open. Was that what had snapped? Just this interior imaginary thing? Why had it made such a sound?
Harry tried to get his breathing under control as flashes of memories which he had kept behind the now open threshold leaked and distracted him.
The thing with feathers and too many eyes was clever. It waited for when Harry was at his most vulnerable. When he barely had a grip on his body, his soul hovering at the edge between death and not-death.
And when he was so, the thing with feathers and too many eyes would slip in. Under the skin, and behind the eyes, it rested in the space between the jaw and the back of the neck. Harry could feel it itching against his humanity, like Harry was allergic to its contact.
'I am of Death, and you are my child,' it whispered, 'and you shall find the path to me, one way or another.'
Harry had no time to waste, yet he must waste it. He stood, with a hand thrown against the papered corridor wall, and took deep, steadying breaths. Slowly, agonizingly, he managed to close the door in his mind. But there was no deadbolt. It stood very slightly ajar, the thin silhouette of unlight hovering around it, promising that any moment it could spring back open.
Harry glanced at the corridor wall. Election posters. It was good to be distracted, even minutely. As his breath steadied, he studied the posters and the pamphlets which had consumed the wall. He quickly calculated that had he been a free man, a regular citizen of Wizarding Britain, he would be casting a vote for Amos Diggory. It was not wise to be swayed by personal biases, but considering Andrei Mirum had been the man who threw him in Azkaban, Harry felt some allowances could be given.
Regaining some measure of control over himself, but still shaking, Harry pressed on.
…
It was shockingly easy to find the way.
Harry's feet almost had a mind of their own, as they traced the circuitous paths that led deeper and deeper into the labyrinthine bowl of stone that was the Department of Mysteries.
The blue light seemed to grow dimmer and dimmer, and shadows at his feet seemed to grow a sentience.
Was that the sputtering of a candle wick, or was that low shuddering coming from the darkness? Did the corridor seem to warp, tilt slightly on its axis? Harry kept a hand on the corridor wall to steady himself. How much of this was him and how much was it the Department? He did not know.
At last, he faced the door which led to the Death Chamber. Harry's anxiety swelled. This was not a good room. He had reason to mislike it.
Harry was not facing a Boggart, but... He could not bring himself to open the door quite yet, because he was convinced that what he would see on the other side would be the worst horror he could possibly imagine.
And what would that be?
The noises and shadows swelled, and Harry was sure that something grotesque was just on the other side of the door.
Rather similar to Molly Weasley, Harry saw a parade of dead bodies which might or might not be waiting for him behind the door. Teddy, obviously, as he was the very reason Harry had been drawn here. A lifeless teenage boy, lying next to the stone arch, the billowing black curtain tickling his still shoulder. Or perhaps Harry would walk in with just enough time to see Teddy pass through the curtain to the other side, forever irretrievable.
Hermione, back from Murmansk, drawn to this unholy corridor. The thought was ridiculous, but it still gave Harry a cold, hair-raising pause.
And then another thought, one which Harry judged a tad selfish.
Sometimes, you don't need a Boggart to know what you're most afraid of.
Hearing the awful noises from the other room brought back memories of Sherlock, cavalier and zealous, trying to summon demons in the living room of 221B for 'science.' Harry knew suddenly that what he was most afraid of in the world was finding a dead Sherlock in the next room, and knowing that there was no way back to 221B, no way to patch up the fragile, beautiful thing that had broken between them. And Harry understood then, that if he saw this, any amount of Phoenix tears, and any number of passing years would never successfully knit his soul back together.
Hermione will take care of me. Australia might be nice, after all.
He decided quickly that if he made it out of this mess, he would try to fix things up with the muggle detective.
Funny, he thought, how fear sorts your priorities.
Harry opened the door.
The noises stopped like he had thrown on a lightswitch and banished the boogeymen of the imagination. The stone arch stood in the middle of the room, silent and still. There was no one else.
Harry stepped into the room. His gut told him that he had found the right place. But the right place for what? And where was Teddy? Reassuring himself that his cloak was still squarely over him, Harry took another step forward.
"Mr. Potter?"
The voice came from the other side of the dias. Harry paused. The voice was familiar.
Footsteps.
"Harry Potter?" Ted came walking out from behind the arch, his eyes distant, his body shambling along. Harry could see the strings of the Imperius Curse hovering above the boy's shoulders.
Then, the rational and the paranoid part of Harry's mind made a pact of allegiance. Harry took out his Elder Wand and attempted every detection spell he knew.
Half of them failed, the other half showed nothing.
Ted Lupin was still walking around, spinning his head one way then the other, looking for invisible Harry.
Someone had brought the boy here, under the Imperius, to await Harry. Why? Whatever the reason, there seemed to be no one here presently. Or, as far as his blasted, unusable Wand could tell him, there was no danger.
Harry silently walked over to Teddy, the boy still unaware of his presence. The most important thing was for him to get Ted out of here, and bring him home. Harry felt for the portkeys. This should be easy. He would press the enchanted coin into Ted's palm, and they would both be out of here. But first…
Harry stepped right out in front of Ted. He could not do what he had to do next with the Invisibility Cloak hovering in front of his face. Only direct eye contact would do.
His gut churning with fear, Harry lifted the cloak over his head.
"Harry Potter!" Teddy said, and started closer, but then immediately halted. Harry's gaze had arrested the boy in his tracks.
"Ted…" Harry said, his voice low, his probing Legilimency already entering the skull-space behind the boy's eyes. Harry could feel the delicate hooks of the Imperius Curse. He pricked them off, gently. Ted shuddered.
Ted's eyes lost the distant quality, and suddenly, he was breathing hard and looking around.
"It's alright, Ted, calm down." Harry assured.
"Aren't you…? What am I doing here? Where are we?" Ted was scared, and he was backing away from Harry. Ted's eyes widened as he presumably recognized his insane, criminal godfather. Harry had to stifle a bark of laughter. How things repeated themselves! Harry could almost see the haunting outline of the Whomping Willow, and the dusty floor of the Shrieking Shack, where he had finally confronted Sirius Black.
"You're Harry Potter." Ted said it, with a hushed tone.
Harry dimly remembered that upon encountering Sirius Black for the first time, he had tried to murder his godfather. A cold chill crept down his spine. He wondered what Ted would do.
"Yes." Harry answered simply, trying to gauge the boy. There was a malignant air around Ted, the air of a curse. A dark aura that hovered over his clothes. Harry reasoned that it was the after-effect of the Impirius, one of the Unforgivables. Perhaps it would take some time to disperse.
"Why have you brought me here?" Ted asked, looking around. His voice shook, and his face was very pale.
"I was hoping you could tell me why we're here, Ted. You see, I've just gotten here myself."
Ted snapped his face around to Harry.
"What?" He gaped.
"I received a Patronus from you, that said you were in trouble, down in the Department of Mysteries. I suppose you might not remember sending it, seeing as you were under the Imperius Curse. What is the last thing you remember, Ted?"
Ted took a second to respond, perhaps weighing his options.
"Er, I think the last thing I remember is… going to bed. At home." Ted finally said.
Harry's face fell. Not very helpful.
"Alright, then. Let's get you out of here, eh?" Harry said, and took one cautious step towards the boy. Ted took exactly one cautious step back. Shit.
"You don't trust me?" Harry commented, more than asked. Of course Ted Lupin didn't trust him. How could he?
"I just- I don't know what's going on. Where are you going to take me?" Ted asked.
Harry looked at the boy. For being in this unfamiliar and probably terrifying situation, Ted was keeping remarkably cool. Much calmer than a teenage Harry would have acted, if he were being honest with himself.
"I have a Portkey," Harry started, holding up one of the coins, "And this Portkey will take us to a muggle flat in London. From there, we can talk about what happened, if you wish. Or, I can take you back to your grandmother's cottage. But… that might not be safe. Considering."
Ted's eyes darted from the coin that Harry held out and back to Harry's face.
"What did you give me for my birthday?" Ted suddenly asked.
Harry started. "I - what?"
Ted repeated the question, looking right at Harry. "What did you give me for my thirteenth birthday?"
"The Marauder's Map, wasn't it?" Harry said, looking at the boy.
"That's right." Ted said, "But why?"
This stunned Harry. "I suppose I wanted you to have it?"
Ted seemed to accept this. He nodded his head, like Harry had confirmed something.
"Did you poison Ron Weasley?" Ted asked.
Harry blinked his eyes, shocked by the question. "Erm, no, I did not." He said.
"Alright. I'll take your Portkey. But, only if you give me your wand first." Ted said, jutting out his chin. Smart boy, Harry thought.
Harry glanced down at the Elder Wand in his hand. He did not want to give this damned, cursed piece of wood to Ted. He knew that its powers could not be transferred to Ted unless the boy won it in a duel. Only a true owner of the wand could wield it effectively. And anyway, the wand had been so disobedient to Harry that… At that moment, Harry almost connected the dots, but not quite. He could at least see their shining outline. But where to draw the line?
"Ted, I will give you my wand. But I caution you: please do not use it. Understand?" Harry said.
Ted's eyebrows scrunched in confusion. "Throw it." Ted said.
This is stupid, Hermione's voice sounded in his head. You don't know what's going on, and you're about to give up your wand? Just take Ted by force, and explain later!
Harry hushed his voice of reason. Reason could not solve the delicate tangle of mistrust that he saw winding behind Ted's eyes.
Harry nodded, took out his wand, and tossed it in a neat arc towards Ted's outstretched hand.
Ted caught it.
"Alright, the Portkey." Harry held up the coin. He could see the calculation inside Ted's eyes. The boy was considering fleeing by himself. Ought he trust his deranged godfather or ought he not?
Finally, with a jerk of his head, Ted took a step towards Harry.
"The Portkey." Ted confirmed.
Harry raised the coin. He murmured the incantation to activate it.
Ted's eyes shot to the coin.
"You can do wandless magic!?" Ted gaped.
"Hurry, we only have ten seconds!" Harry said, and as he stepped towards Ted, the boy stepped back. Naturally, Ted saw that his advantage in having a wand was actually much smaller than he originally imagined.
Force it is.
He reached out to grab Ted's hand, but the boy whirled away. In his head Harry counted down. Eight, seven, six… With reflexes that had grown dusty but never quite disappeared, Harry darted forward and grabbed Ted's shirt.
The shirt, which he instantly realized now, had been cursed, reacted. He felt a bite in his hand, like a venomous snake had sunk its fangs and pumped Harry full of a suffocating darkness.
He staggered, and went on one knee. He should have known. He had seen the dark aura around Ted's clothes…
"Grab the Portkey!" Harry yelled, and tossed the coin at Ted. Perhaps it was a natural response, or perhaps the boy had finally come to trust Harry, but Ted caught it out of the air, and was instantly wrenched away to 221B.
Harry went down on both knees, the darkness clouding his vision. He could no longer see the floor beneath him. He struggled against the curse, but it had taken a strong hold of him. He fell to the floor, and all went black. It was precisely 5:09. One hour before sunrise.
…
At 5:59, Sherlock, Hermione and Ron apparated into Ron's office in the Department of Magical Law Enforcement.
"ALL wands immediately report to the Ministry of Magic, Ninth Level, Department of Mysteries!"
Hermione stumbled a bit on landing, and gripped Sherlock for support. Ron, who was still weak and recuperating, had absolutely insisted on coming along. The compromise, since Ron could not yet walk quite well, was a magically enchanted wheelchair that had been found in Ron's medical room. Instead of wheels, the chair hovered a few inches above the ground and floated, wherever Ron directed it. How Ron directed it, Sherlock had no idea. But he filed the question away for later, considering that they had far more pressing matters to deal with.
The 'All Wands Bulletin' was going off in Ron's office, the red and green lights flashing across the ceiling. They quickly left the office, with Ron, still clad in fluttering white hospital robes, leading the way in his magical chair, and turned into a corridor. Sherlock had to school himself. He was in the Ministry of Magic. There was so much to see, so many deductions to be made by his observation of even the most minute detail. The posters on the wall of the two candidates for Minister of Magic; from those alone he could mine a mountain of useful information about the Wizarding World.
The corridors outside the DMLE were empty. Sherlock reasoned that everyone and anyone who worked here was currently rushing to answer the 'All Wands' call, and they would find them all, sooner or later.
And how would we find Harry? In what state? Sherlock shook his head. He would be of no use to anyone, no use to Harry, if he let the billowing curtains of panic occlude his mind.
As Sherlock and Hermione ran after Ron, whose chair was taking the twists and turns of the corridors at surprising speed, a cold clammy sensation began to climb up Sherlock's spine. It was a physical sensation, akin to what he felt outside of the house on Archer Street, where Sherlock had first found Harry.
"Sherlock, be careful! There are dementors here!" Hermione yelled, as they ran.
"Where?" He could see nothing but the empty corridor ahead.
"They're bloody everywhere! Hold on!" That was Ron, and he suddenly produced his wand. Hermione did the same. Both cast a spell that sent a jet of brilliant silver light into the air. The light resolved into two animal shapes: an otter and some kind of small dog.
The feeling of dread receded, but did not quite leave him. Why were there dementors here, exactly? And how come Sherlock didn't see them?
They were suddenly at the end of the corridor, and before Sherlock knew what was happening, he was stuffed into a tiny, old fashioned lift, with Ron in his chair taking up most of the room. Hermione punched some buttons, and the lift began descending. The lift made such a racket, that Sherlock was sure it would snap and break at any moment.
Hermione, catching her breath, finally spoke up: "Non-magicals can't see dementors. If there are more… just stick close by, alright? You definitely don't want to run into one."
They rode down for an eternity, all three waiting for what they would find on the ninth level. Sherlock was doing his very best to keep it together. He knew what dementors in the Ministry meant. He knew that they must be here for one purpose, and one purpose only: to capture and kiss Harry. And Harry would be gone from him. Forever. Sherlock moaned deep in his throat. Hermione threw him a worried look, but Sherlock waved her off. He was fine, he could handle this.
When the lift finally opened on to a dark corridor, it felt like a tsunami of freezing water burst over Sherlock, and completely engulfed him. He gasped. To his surprise, Ron and Hermione looked shocked as well.
"So many of them…" Hermione whispered.
"Looks like all the dementors from Azkaban… why are they here?" Ron said in a weak voice.
Both wizard and witch gathered themselves, and recast their patronuses. The little otter and dog seemed smaller now, weaker, but nonetheless, in their company, Sherlock felt some of the cold abate.
"Let's go." Said Ron, but he was surely less confident then he had been before.
…
At 5:09, Ted Lupin landed with a thump. After taking a careful survey of his environment, he concluded that he had landed in the flat of a mad muggle. There was a skull on the mantelpiece and everything. Guilt wrenched his gut. He had left Harry Potter succumbing to some sort of horrible curse, in the Department of Mysteries. He had taken Harry Potter's enchanted coin, and had left him, alone, with no wand and no Portkey. If whoever had drawn Ted to the Department was still lurking there, his godfather was in big trouble.
Ted waited a few spare seconds to see if anyone would Portkey to this same flat. Perhaps his godfather had a few more tricks up his sleeve? Perhaps he was right behind Ted, and would be here any second now?
The seconds ticked by on an antique clock on the muggle's walls.
No one came.
Swearing to himself in a way that was very unbecoming, and would get him into loads of trouble with Andromeda had she been there, Ted strode out of the flat, down the stairs and into muggle London. Or, more accurately, he bumbled and got turned around, until he finally found the way out of the house.
Once he was on the street, he squinted for a sign. Baker Street. Okay, he had no idea where that was. He also had no muggle money, and only his godfather's wand, which Potter had ominously warned him not to use. Great, everything was really coming together.
Ted thought about what he should do. If it was any other person, he knew the right thing would have been to alert the aurors. But, taking into consideration his godfather's status as the Number One Most Wanted… aurors didn't seem like a particularly good idea.
With a nod, he resolved himself to make his way back to the Ministry of Magic. All he had to do was find a muggle tube station, and Ted was reasonably sure he could navigate to the Ministry from there. He had no idea what he could do, but he could not just leave his godfather. It was basically Ted's fault that Harry Potter was out cold and helpless, lying next to the billowing curtain hung off the stone arch which frankly, gave Ted the creeps. Ted hurried his step. He sensed that time was not on his side.
…
When Harry came to, it was 5:19. He knew this, because he could quite easily check the antique golden watch on his wrist. His hands were perfectly free. The rest of him however…
He was sitting in a chair. No, a throne. He was sitting on a throne? That is indeed what appeared to be underneath him. A golden throne, rather blemished and darkened by time, with a high back. He was on a stone dais in a room that resembled the Death Chamber, except where the arch would have gone was Harry's throne. Harry tried to stand up, but found that his back and legs had been glued to the back of the ghastly chair. He could move his arms and head at will, but not the rest of his body.
The room he was in was almost the exact size and shape of the Death Chamber, except, Harry thought, the ceiling was a tad lower. Also, his throne was not the only one in the room. Next to him, on the left and the right, were two more thrones.
Harry's stomach sank. On his right was a woman. She was slumped over, presumably her back and legs glued to her own, slightly smaller golden chair. Harry examined her face. She looked familiar to him. Hadn't he seen her before? Hadn't he seen a photograph of her, brooding face framed by a fringe of hair…
Laura Baskey! The name came to him at once. The woman who was involved in Sherlock's case of the Harlesden Ripper! He was sure, looking at the unconscious woman, that it was her. But what was Laura Baskey, a muggle woman, doing on a throne next to his? And really, where were they?
Harry turned to his left. The golden chair there, which was the smallest of the three, stood empty.
Harry wiggled a bit in his seat to gauge his freedom of movement. His hands could reach his pocket, he thought, if he could just raise his hip a bit. That was good. Harry almost dug his hands inside his pocket, to retrieve the second coin, when a loud banging noise behind his back made him twitch, and whirl his head around to see what was there.
He came into view quite quickly. A paunchy, older man, with the gray robes of an employee of the Department of Mysteries. In front of him floated the body of a young man. Harry recognized with a pang the young, sleepy guard who he had snuck past to gain entrance into the Ministry.
The older man deposited the unconscious guard into the third throne. With a complicated incantation, the young man's body glued itself to the high backing.
"Oh, you're awake. Excellent." The older man said to Harry. "We should begin momentarily."
Harry blinked away his surprise. The older man spoke to him like Harry was in the loop of the strange happenings around him. Harry most certainly was not.
"I had hoped that young Ted Lupin would play the role of the Jack tonight, but it appears you have sent him away. Luckily, I have found a likely replacement." The old man said, pointing to the Ministry guard, who was now slumped in his own chair, on Harry's left. "But no matter, we are still running on schedule. Plenty of time to begin, yet."
"Begin what?" Harry asked, echoing the friendly casual tone of the older man.
The older man shot him a look. "I had thought you might remember." He said.
Harry's throat went dry. There were loads, loads of things Harry did not remember. The long stretch of time between the day that he saw Ginny's corpse crushed by falling rubble, to the day he broke out of Azkaban. Whole years that were gone from his memory. What exactly was it that he had forgotten?
Harry looked around the room. To his horror, it did feel familiar. And this man, he could almost put his finger on who he was, but yet…
"That's alright," the older man said genially. "You were in quite a state last time. No wonder you don't recall. And anyway, last time was a failure. But, I have made improvements. Now, I believe, finally, I have everything that I need."
The man strode to Harry with an outstretched hand. Harry, his arms the only thing that was free, briefly considered trying to grab at the man and pull him close, and… what then? Threaten him with a slap? Harry limply shook the older man's hand.
"Henry Tonks." The man introduced himself, "Obviously I know who you are. And on your left and right are the Queen and Jack. Their names are hardly important. I myself don't bother to know them. You are playing the King tonight. The centerpiece of this ceremony, so to speak. And there is only one of you, and you are the only one who may play that role. The irreplaceable keystone that will hold this whole thing together."
Right.
The man turned around then, and strode away from Harry. He began brandishing his wand at the floor and murmuring spells. Harry saw curves and letters appear on the flagstone. He recognized them, though of course, he could not read them. Goetic.
Harry needed to get out of here. He arched his left hip up, as far as it would go, and his hands dug into his pocket. Nothing.
Where had he placed his second Portkey?
Seeing that the older man, Henry Tonks, was still busy with conjuring the language of the damned on the floor, Harry felt safe in being able to dig through his other pocket.
He arched his right hip, and slipped his hand inside the fabric of his trousers.
It was empty.
Henry Tonks had now turned back, and was walking back to Harry.
"I'm not a complete idiot, Harry." He said, then he took a small, shining coin out of his own gray robes. "I wasn't going to let you keep this. Sorry. But your attendance tonight is mandatory."
Harry was breathing hard now. There was no route to escape. No Portkey. No wand. At least he had saved Ted. Whatever happened now, Ted was safe. Rather, safe but questionably comfortable, in Sherlock's flat.
"And what is my attendance required for, exactly?" Harry asked.
Henry Tonks checked his own wrist, where there was a simple watch with a leather strap.
"5:24. We have exactly fifteen minutes before it will begin. I have to say, I'm pleasantly surprised to find you so talkative. Last time, you hardly said a word."
"Apologies," Harry spat out. He kept trying to test each of his body parts, to see if anything, by some miracle, had gotten loose from the accursed throne.
Henry Tonks chuckled at him.
"It's quite useless, but go on, amuse yourself by trying." He commented on Harry's struggles.
"What happens in fifteen minutes?" Harry asked again.
Henry Tonks smiled. A kindly, old man smile.
"In fifteen minutes, Harry, I get my do-over."
…
Ted was hopelessly lost in the winding streets of London. He had no money. And he felt, somewhere deep in his gut, that time was slowly running out.
The events of the night whirled in his head, and some connections were making themselves apparent, even through Ted's panic.
Slowly, some stretches of his memory from when he was under the Imperius Curse were returning. And Ted was making some very uncomfortable conclusions about his grand-uncle.
But he had to get back to the Ministry! He had to get back to that stone room with the horrible arch. If he could just make it on time…
He thought hard about what he should do, and the idea hit him.
Of course! How had he, under the Imperius Curse, lured his godfather to the Ministry in the first place? Using his patronus as a messenger.
But could he involve someone else into this madness? Would anyone in the world ever believe him?
The first person that popped in Ted's head was Ron Weasely, but that was a non-starter. Ron was currently in St. Mungo's, in a magical coma.
Next on Ted's list were Ron's brothers: George, or maybe Charlie… But Ted didn't think he would be able to explain to them how it was possible that there was something wrong with his grand-uncle, Henry Tonks.
Ted's throat was dry. He suddenly wanted to return to his grandmother, Andromeda, who had been his protector and his best friend when Ted was a little child. He had grown distant with her, after the disagreement over Ted's choice of career, but he still loved her very, very much.
No, he could not burden his grandmother with this. He could not.
For some reason, the last name on his list was someone he barely knew, but someone Ted felt that he could implicitly trust. Toadle, the old Head Auror, who he had met and interviewed with.
Ted stood paralyzed, on a muggle intersection, for long seconds. But he snapped out of it, when a bus took the turn quite aggressively, and blared its horn.
Ted jumped up, and found a small alley to hide in. Then, he cast his patronus.
…
