Chapter 31. 1994 (Part 3)

Dudley found himself pausing—not for the first time that summer—outside of Harry's room. It had become Harry's room in his mind at some point, rather than Dudley's second bedroom. He couldn't quite pin down when though. It had also stopped bothering him at some point, the fact that it was Harry's room now. Probably around the same time, he reckoned.

Either way, he found himself staring at the door to Harry's room that morning, with its cat flap and its many deadbolts, feeling... odd. It was weird that he hadn't come back.

"Good riddance," Dad had said when they'd found out Harry was too ill to come home that summer. "Cross your fingers, Dudley. With any luck, that waste of space will never set foot on our property again."

Dudley had crossed his fingers, of course, but he wasn't sure even now that he'd meant it. Really meant it. Harry was irritating and freaky and all that, but he heard some of the stuff Harry muttered under his breath when Dad wasn't listening. He could be kind of funny sometimes when he wasn't making Dudley feel stupid. He wasn't all bad.

Besides, the look on Mum's face when she'd gotten the letter...

Shrugging it off, Dudley pushed past the door and made his way down for breakfast. Harry would come back eventually. He always did.

Ron Weasley sat amongst stacks of books and papers in the middle of a threadbare rug on the floor of Room Six of the Leaky Cauldron Pub & Inn thinking about how rich he was.

He was richer than his brothers, richer than his parents, richer than he or his family had ever been in his entire life.

And he hated it.

This wasn't how it was supposed to happen.

It wasn't supposed to happen at all. He had planned to refuse the money. In fact, he had violently written—scratched, scrawled, whatever—a livid letter, telling that bastard just exactly where he could stick his goddamn money.

Ron stared down at his hands. He had a new scar now because of that bloody letter. In his fury, he had sliced open his finger on the second quill he'd snapped that evening. Too many broken quills, Ron remembered thinking. He couldn't afford that. Now though... He could afford all the quills he ever wanted.

Because of Hermione. It was she, in the end, who had convinced Ron to destroy the letter. It was she who convinced him to take the money. Lucius Malfoy had very, very deep pockets and a very, very good incentive for keeping Ron's mouth shut. And Hermione herself had decided to accept her bit of the money, after all. They had to be practical about it, she had explained. The research they needed to pull Harry out of his coma would require resources. Expensive resources.

If he wanted to help...

So here he was, soaked in blood money. Kind of. It couldn't be blood money if Harry wasn't dead, right?

Harry isn't dead, Ron reminded himself firmly. He hadn't woken up in months, sure, and he showed no signs of improvement, but... Harry is alive. And he would wake up. He and Hermione just had to keep working as they had all summer. Tirelessly.

Ron dreaded the start of fourth year. How was he supposed to care about his classes when they had so much more important work to do? His parents didn't understand. They kept telling him that Dumbledore and the healers had a handle on things but they didn't know. No one did. No one, except for him, Hermione, Draco fucking Malfoy, and Dumbledore. And "select members of the staff", he remembered the headmaster saying. He couldn't even be sure if Harry's healers knew the details of what had happened to him. It drove Ron mad—Dumbledore was so hesitant to tell them anything!

That's why they had to keep at it, no matter what his parents said. Hermione's parents, at least, seemed to be more understanding. Either that, or she was lying to them. She had been renting Room Six at Leaky's for the last month using the blood money—hush money, he corrected himself—to pay. They used it as an office of sorts, and she spent her free time hunting for relevant books and information. Ron visited and helped as much as his parents would allow—which was at least three times a week—but it still didn't feel like enough. Nothing they found was detailed enough, nothing was concrete. And now the summer was drawing to an end. He was supposed to be shopping for his books right now, not sitting here sorting notes waiting for—

"I've got it!"

The sudden shock of the door slamming open sent Ron reeling as Hermione swept into the room. Sharp pain jolted up his arm, turning the bushy-haired girl into nothing more than a blur of movement as his eyes watered, and he swore, clutching at his elbow. In his panic, he had slammed it hard into a stack of rather solid books. It was a testament to Hermione's obvious excitement that she didn't rush over to re-sort the now toppled pile. Instead, she crossed the room, dropped to her knees in front of him, and actually swept her arm out, shoving the many papers surrounding him into a flurry.

Ron cried out in surprise, still holding his elbow. "Hey! What're you doing? I spent ages sorting those!"

Hermione ignored him and reached her hand into her leather side satchel. "I've got it, Ron." She pulled out a small book. A glance showed no sign of a title or anything on the outside.

He sat up straighter, excitement burning away any lingering pain. "Got what? What is it, Hermione?"

With careful movements, Hermione placed the small book—the journal, Ron reckoned—onto the rug between them. Her eyes were wide and intense as she stared down at it and the air around her all but crackled with tension and magic alike.

When she didn't answer, he asked "Where'd you get it?"

The floodgates opened.

"Oh Ron, I know we've been avoiding it, but I just—I know I should've—I mean you should've seen some of the books in there, nasty stuff, but I couldn't just—"

"Hermione—"

"And, and, they had a whole section of old research journals, so I just went up and asked—"

"Hermione!"

"I figured it would be a long shot but—I wasn't expecting him to actually have anything—"

Ron reached forward and grabbed her forearms.

She finally looked up, expression wild. "Oh god, I'm making no sense, aren't I?"

"Kinda, yeah. Might help if you breathed between sentences. Or finished them."

That startled a laugh out of her and she nodded rapidly, breathing in a shaky breath. "Yeah. Yeah. You're right."

As she composed herself, Ron looked down at the journal. Sitting on the shoddy rug before Hermione, the book looked deceptively commonplace. An unassuming thing. Ron was certain it was anything but. He was proven correct when Hermione spoke.

"This journal is the personal research journal of an Unspeakable, Ron."

"You're joking," he blurted. "How on earth—!?"

It came out in a rush. "I've been going into Knockturn Alley."

"You what? By yourself?!"

"I've been careful!" she said defensively. "I take precautions, you know, and no one has taken note of me, as far as I'm aware. I'm not stupid," she added, narrowing her eyes.

"I know, I just—I could've gone with you."

"It's fine Ron," she said irritably. "One kid looking at books on Time magic draws enough attention as it is, let alone two. It was better this way. Now, do you want to know how I got it or not?"

He wanted to protest more but... "Yes," he said. "Sorry."

Hermione eyed him before continuing. "I got it at this really awful store called Borgin and Burkes. I almost didn't go in the first time, to be honest, I thought it was just full of Dark artifacts and the like at first, but I'd heard that it was the place to go if you wanted rare information."

"When you said something about research journals before..."

Hermione nodded. "The Ministry keeps such a tight grip on new developments in magical research that there's a whole black market for research journals. I had to pay five thousand galleons for this one."

Ron gaped at her. "Five—Five thousand?! Have you even read it yet?!"

"Not cover to cover," she admitted, "But I've read enough. Look!"

They almost knocked heads as they both leaned over, Hermione to begin rifling through the pages. After a moment, she found what she was looking for. "Here! Look."

Inked onto the slightly yellowing parchment was a labeled drawing of a Time-Turner. Below it, Ron saw detailed annotations. He even caught sight of what looked like runic equations or something.

Ron gaped at it. "Merlin's beard," he breathed.

"I know," Hermione said seriously. "This page alone contains more information than we've been able to scrounge up all summer, Ron. I need to read it. We need to read it. All of it."

He could only nod as Ron stared down at the journal and silence stretched between them. Eventually, he spoke. It pained him to say it. "You go first. You're the faster reader."

Hermione nodded as well and began to read.

The hour or so that followed was excruciating for Ron as he sat there, unknowing and uncomfortable on the hard floor. He knew by now not to stare at Hermione as she read but he was helpless to stop himself from glancing over to check her progress every few minutes. This was met with a burning glare about ten minutes in and Ron grimaced apologetically, turning to the window instead. He spent the rest of that time attempting to distract himself from Hermione's small noises of surprise or understanding by watching the sparkly dust motes floating in the air. They moved about lazily, illuminated by the light streaming in through one of the windows, and as time passed he found himself tracking the shadows moving across the floor. He needed to pee but surely Hermione was almost at the end by now.

Eventually, she cleared her throat and Ron turned back around. "Well?" he prompted, voice a bit gravelly from disuse.

"I am... confused."

Ron blinked at her. That was new. "Why? What is it?"

Instead of answering, Hermione awkwardly struggled onto all fours and half-crawled half-reached toward a familiar book.

Advanced Geomagicks: A Comprehensive Review of Metallic and Stone Particulates by Gervase Erwin.

"Do you remember this book?" she asked once she'd settled back into a seated position clutching the book.

Ron nodded. "Yeah, that's the one you stole from the library, that really old one that talked about the golden sand in the-the—What's the name of that desert again? That really famous one?"

"The Sahara," Hermione answered compulsively. "And I didn't steal it, I borrowed it."

"Sure, yeah, that," he nodded. "Anyway, no one could get close to the sand, right? They kept reappearing miles away and no one could figure out why?"

"Exactly."

"Well, we looked into that and it was a dead end before, wasn't it? So... What do we know now?"

"That golden sand was Time Sand, Ron. The sand in that desert is the same sand that can be found in every Time-Turner ever made. The researchers going out there back in 1939 weren't being relocated, they were being dragged back in time. At least," she added, "That's Quidant's theory."

"Quidant?"

"The author of this journal. The Unspeakable R. L. Quidant. Who knows if that's their real name. Or if they're still alive even. This journal is from 1963. But that—never mind." She shook her head rapidly. "There's something more important."

"What?"

"It'd be better if I read it out loud."

Ron gestured his assent and Hermione began flipping through the journal again until she landed on the right page. She cleared her throat and read, "'We lost Dawson and Gudger today collecting more of the sample—' That's the Time Sand," she cut herself off.

Ron waved her off with a hissed "I know!" and prompted her to continue.

"Sorry. Okay. 'We lost Dawson and Gudger today collecting more of the sample for research. Our dual Retineo—' That's a containment charm, '—was not sufficiently powered and the men were showered in it. It pains me. This could have been avoided. We will need to be more rigorous with our P.P.E..'"

"P.P.E.?" Ron asked.

"I'm pretty sure it stands for 'personal protective equipment.' I think Quidant is a muggle-born. Muggle scientists wear P.P.E. in their labs to protect them if there ever is an accident."

"Oh. Is that all?"

"No, it continues," Hermione said. "'Like all who have been unfortunate enough to touch the Sand, Dawson and Gudger immediately collapsed and now exhibit the same vegetative symptoms typical of such exposure.'"

"Just like Harry!" Ron hissed but she shook her head rapidly and continued, her voice growing slower, giving the words emphasis. Ron leaned in.

"'I am again reminded of the victims of the Dementor's Kiss, as I should be. Their souls are lost.'"

"Their souls?!" Ron yelled, and something crushed in his chest. "No. No, that means—"

"I don't think it does," Hermione said quickly, and he opened his mouth again to protest only to be interrupted. "No, Ron, think about it! Victims of the Dementor's Kiss become fully comatose; they become nothing more than shells after their souls are sucked out. But Harry—Ron, Harry woke up! Harry has continued to wake up, over and over again, even if he can't seem to see us when he does and even if he does slip back under after. For whatever reason, Harry does not act as if his soul has been destroyed."

"Well, that's because it's lost, isn't it? That's what Quinty said—"

"Quidant, and no, Ron. Well, yes, but also no. He goes on to describe the symptoms in more detail, look—" The journal was shoved into his hands. "—and everything he says aligns with the symptoms of a Dementor's Kiss. He did say 'lost' but really, I think he means destroyed."

"So... Harry's soul isn't lost?" His head was swimming; the emotions were overwhelming.

"No..." Hermione's voice was small and her eyes were distant. "No, I think it is. But it isn't gone. I don't understand why it isn't gone. Why is he different?"

"Well, it's Harry isn't it?"

Her lips twitched. "Yeah..."

The two lapsed into silence and Ron stared down at the journal unseeingly. Finally, he spoke. "We need to tell Dumbledore."

It took her a moment but she nodded. "Yes. Yes, I think you're right."

Ron stood up, stiff, and went to write another bloody letter.

They received the message on the first day of classes, at dinner. With the other Gryffindors busy speculating about the Triwizard Tournament—honestly, who cared? Hermione thought—it was easy to open it covertly.

Dear Ron and Hermione,

I would like to discuss the contents of the letter you sent earlier this week tomorrow. Kindly come along to my office at 8 p.m. I wish you my best and I hope you are enjoying your first day back at school as best you can.

Yours sincerely,

Albus Dumbledore

P.S. The gargoyle enjoys Sticky Toffee.

"The gargoyle enjoys Sticky Toffee?" Ron asked angrily. He had been reading over Hermione's shoulder. "He ignores us for days—"

"That must be the password to his office," Hermione whispered quickly, though she too felt some of the anger lacing his voice. "We'll finally get some answers, Ron."

"We better."

The prospect left her feeling antsy for the rest of the evening, and she found it difficult to fall asleep that night. Unfortunately, not even her classes the next day could take her mind off of the upcoming discussion. How could it, with Harry's empty chair right there? She wasn't sure if it was better or worse this way, the teachers leaving Harry's usual spots open as if he were coming back any day now. Because he wasn't, was he? Not unless Dumbledore knew something she didn't.

She wished with all her heart that he did as she stood before the gargoyle in the Headmaster's Tower and said, "Sticky Toffee."

The gargoyle sprang aside and they walked up a moving spiral staircase and knocked on the oak door at the top. A voice beyond called to them. "Come in."

The two exchanged a glance before Ron pushed the door open.

"Ron, Hermione," Professor Dumbledore said in welcome, but she wasn't looking at the old man. No, she was looking at the glass orb sitting on the desk before him. The glass orb with swirling golden sand inside. "I am glad you—"

"What's that?" she heard Ron ask immediately. "Is that Time Sand in there?" It certainly looked like it.

"It is," Professor Dumbledore nodded solemnly. "More specifically, it is the Time Sand we removed from Harry at the end of last semester."

It was said with surprising candor, without any attempt at evasion or ambiguity. "Why?" Hermione blurted.

"Because I," the headmaster said, "like you, believe Harry is not lost. Come, please. Sit."

Hermione and Ron walked over and slipped into the two seats before Professor Dumbledore's desk. As they did, the man pulled out his wand and conjured up two teacups and a teapot, which he immediately set to preparing. As he did, Hermione took the opportunity to pull R. L. Quidant's research journal from her bag. She placed it on the desk before her.

"This must be the Unspeakable's journal," Professor Dumbledore said.

"Yessir."

"Where did you find it, may I ask?" The man's voice was light.

Great. Hermione braced herself, ashamed. "A store called Borgin and Burke's in Knockturn Alley," she confessed. The man's eyebrows lifted, but to her surprise, he did not chastise her. Instead, he reached over to pick it up, checking the back of the cover, presumably for a name or date. "I marked the pages we wrote about," she said quickly, in case he changed his mind about scolding her.

"The ones describing what happened to the researchers who touched the sand?"

"Yessir."

The professor waved his wand, and the teacups floated over to sit down before the two of them. Ron took his cup without pause, but Hermione just watched as Dumbledore flipped to the marked pages. He read them with blinding speed before he sighed and looked up. He looked weary. A sort of tired that was bone deep.

"What do you think, sir?" Hermione asked weakly.

"I think you are right."

"But why?" Ron asked loudly, "Why was Harry's soul not destroyed like the others? And how do we really know it isn't?"

Dumbledore looked up sharply at that, and his electric blue eyes pierced Ron over his half-moon spectacles. "I have several theories as to your first question, but your second? That is what this—" he nodded to the glass orb, "—is for. Let me show you."

Ron all but tossed his teacup onto the desk in his eagerness as Professor Dumbledore tapped his wand against the glass of the strange orb. Immediately, the golden sand swirling inside split in two—no, almost split in two. While there were two pools of sand on opposite sides of the glass, there was a thick swirling line of gold connecting them.

Hermione gasped.

"What does that mean?" Ron demanded.

The professor didn't answer, instead levitating the orb and moving it. The sand within did not change orientation, acting almost like a compass needle in its steadfastness as the glass around it rotated randomly at Dumbledore's whim.

"You see this end here?" Dumbledore said, pointing at the sand pooling farthest from them. "When it was first made, it pointed toward the Hospital Wing. Now it remains pointed toward St. Mungos."

"Toward Harry," Ron muttered.

"It's... connected to him then?" Hermione guessed.

The man nodded. "Yes. The sand has, I believe, attuned to him."

"Oh!" Hermione exclaimed, excitement flooding her as she realized she actually understood something. "I've heard of that! The Advanced Geomagick book from the library had a whole chapter on Divination Geomagic and—" the words poured out of her mouth, "—it talked about how old Seers used to spend years attuning to different combinations and ratios of crystalline sands for more accurate and precise divination purposes, but it's supposed to be really difficult though, attuning like that—," she couldn't stop talking, "—because crystalline sand is one of the few naturally occurring materials that are magically conductive despite being inherently nonmagical, so while possible, it's really difficult—" really, she should stop, "—unlike most other magically conductive materials which come from inherently magical creatures like wand cores and acromantula silk and dragon scales and—!"

"What about the other end?" Ron interrupted and Hermione's mouth snapped shut. Finally, she thought, even as she began to flush. Over her sharp embarrassment over losing her head, she heard him ask, "If all the sand is attuned to him why doesn't it all bunch up at one end of the glass?"

"That's the question, isn't it?" Professor Dumbledore said. "I am fairly certain this is proof that Harry's soul is no longer tethered to his body. If Harry's soul was truly gone, if he was no longer connected to his body, this divide in the sand would not exist."

"Where is he then?" Ron asked. "And why wasn't he destroyed like everyone else who touches Time Sand?"

"Is it because he attuned to it somehow?" Hermione theorized, pushing past the heat in her cheeks.

"Perhaps," the headmaster said, not quite meeting their eyes. "I cannot be sure."

"You have theories though," Ron accused.

"Yes," Hermione added, "You said it before. You have an idea why, you just don't want to tell us."

Professor Dumbledore sighed as his sharp eyes moved from Ron to Hermione. "This is true. I do not want to tell you until I must."

"But you will tell us?"

"Yes."

It was more than Hermione or Ron had expected, judging from the look the redhead shot her.

"May I take this?" Dumbledore continued when they didn't speak, holding up the research journal. "I need to study it more for answers, perhaps track down this—" he squinted at the cover, "—R. L. Quidant. It is highly likely based on the date here that the man or woman has retired and will be more receptive to our plight than the current Unspeakables at the Ministry. With luck, I believe it could be possible to draw Harry's soul back into his body. I just need this journal."

"Yes," Hermione and Ron said in tandem.

"Take it," she said. "And please, sir. Keep us updated."

"Harry is our best friend," Ron declared firmly. "We need to know what's happening."

"I understand," Professor Dumbledore affirmed solemnly, and with that, the old man took the journal, promised to keep Ron and Hermione informed, and sent them off to bed.

The next day, they woke to the news that Harry Potter had been nearly strangled to death by a potted plant.

Dudley Dursley tried not to stare from his spot on the couch at the strange old man in starry robes standing too tall in the living room, or at the strange newspapers on the coffee table, or at his mum who was as white as a sheet, or at his dad who was as red as a tomato. This didn't leave him much to look at, and the photos in the newspapers were moving so he compromised by only staring at them.

STILL-COMATOSE BOY-WHO-LIVED NEARLY STRANGLED TO DEATH BY DISGUISED DEVIL'S SNARE! by Rita Skeeter, he read.

HARRY JAMES POTTER (1980-1994), THE BOY-WHO-LIVED TO DIE TOO SOON by Rita Skeeter, he also read.

HE-WHO-MUST-NOT-BE-NAMED'S BLOODY RETURN: AZKABAN AND GODRIC'S HALLOW by Rita Skeeter, he also also read.

His dad got his wish then. Harry really would never set foot on their property again.

"I understand how difficult this must be to hear," the strange old man was saying to his dad. "But you and your family are still at risk."

"But the boy's dead," Dad said, mad. "I see no reason to uproot our lives over some madman—"

"That madman has proven himself determined to wipe all traces of Harry Potter away, Mr. Dursley, and that could include you," the old man said firmly. "Godric's Hallow has been all but destroyed and even now Lord Voldemort pursues—"

Dudley let the conversation wash over him as he thought about his cousin, wishing more than ever that he had never crossed his fingers.

Ron and Hermione did not receive a letter at dinner the next time they were summoned to the Headmaster's office. Instead, they were brought there in the dead of night in a swirl of phoenix flame.

The first thing Hermione saw was a person. Not Dumbledore, whom she had expected, but Severus Snape, looking as dour as ever. Next to him, sat a large black dog the two Gryffindors immediately recognized as Sirius Black. Hermione stepped on Ron's foot when he opened his mouth. Professor Snape's eyes narrowed at the move but the man was interrupted before he could remark on it.

"Good, you're here," Professor Dumbledore said and they turned to see the old man stride in through a side door into the space holding a large tartan carpet bag. Upon a second glance, the office looked far less cluttered than usual.

It wasn't difficult to piece it together.

"You're leaving?" Hermione cried. "N-Now?" Her voice cracked horribly but she couldn't bring herself to care.

"How could you?!" Ron yelled, his anger bursting free. He was always angry these days. "You-know-who is back and you're running?"

"You will hold your tongue, Weasley," Professor Snape sneered, "Or you—"

"Severus," Professor Dumbledore warned, cutting him off. "Please." The man quieted. "Thank you. Now," he turned to Ron and Hermione. "I brought you here today because I promised you answers. I now have them."

The two tensed and exchanged glances before Ron said, bluntly, "Harry is dead." Dog-Sirius barked sharply. "He is," Ron said louder. "I don't know what type of answers you have for us, but that won't change that fact."

"Harry is not dead," Dumbledore said. "Not in the typical fashion."

"What do you, 'not in the typical fashion'?" Hermione demanded, head swimming. "How—I don't—I don't understand!"

"When Voldemort was young," Professor Dumbledore said, and Professor Snape glanced up jerkily, an odd expression on his face, "he was known as Tom Marvolo Riddle and he was terrified of death. So much so that he took violent and dark measures to protect himself from it. He created something called a Horcrux."

The explanation that followed horrified Hermione. That such horrid things existed appalled her. And Voldemort, it seemed, had made several, wounding and fraying his very soul.

"I do not yet know the true number of Horcruxes Voldemort created, but I know this. Even if Harry had attuned to the sand, his soul could not have survived the Sands of Time on that alone. Harry Potter was a Horcrux. There is no other explanation."

She felt numb, stupid. Her mind could not wrap around it. And yet...

"And more..." Professor Dumbledore waved his wand at his bag and a familiar orb appeared, except this time when the old man tapped his wand against the glass, the golden sand within lurched wildly in scattered directions. "The sand still searches for him," Dumbledore said. "If Harry were truly dead, it would not do this."

If Harry had another bit of soul to burn...

"Harry may be gone from this time, but he is not lost. With Voldemort's other Horcruxes—"

"We can find him." The words were whispered but they seemed to ring in her head and Hermione glanced over at Professor Snape, who'd spoken. He was staring at his hands which were laced together.

"We can...?" Her voice was weak.

"We can find Harry Potter and bring him back."