Over the next week, the rest of the sleepers trickled back to Hogwarts. Sirius was first, sloping in with a yawn; James and Lily came next, together and hand-in-hand; Remus was last, appearing even more exhausted than he had when Harry had first met him. All were thin, but in good spirits; popular as they were, they were greeted with great good cheer from the other Gryffindor students, who swamped them and showered them with questions and gifts.
"What I can't believe," said James, the next day, "is that even though we were meant to have graduated already, we've still got to sleep in our regular old dorm." He nudged Harry with his elbow. "How come we don't get special rooms all on our own?"
It was odd, having them back. These last months, Harry had only half-existed here at Hogwarts; his earlier sense that he was a ghost here at Hogwarts in 1978 had tripled. Most of his thoughts had not been here in the school, but on a quiet street in Godric's Hollow where so many people he cared about lay sleeping. Returning to school on September 1st – he'd Apparated directly to Hogsmeade instead of riding the train – had been odd, especially since when he'd left it, so few students had been there. Greeting yet another new professor for Defense Against the Dark Arts – this replacement for Marlene McKinnon was an elderly witch named Galatea Merrythought, who had been brought out of retirement. Apparently, she had once been a very popular teacher; now, she snoozed through most of their lessons and, according to rumor, had very little control over the younger classes.
Privately, Harry thought that she might not even last the entire year.
James blinked when he found out that she was serving as professor. "She taught my dad," he said, almost awed.
"Yeah, she's pretty old," agreed Harry.
But with the return of Ginny and the others, it was as though color and sound had returned to Hogwarts. Harry was no longer a ghost roaming the halls alone, eager to do the absolute minimal work he could in his classes in order to get to Godric's Hollow as fast as he could. Now, though… Now, Harry felt fully there, even though the others weren't in classes with him, but were busy working with their various tutors. It was enough to know they were there.
And Ginny. It was particularly brilliant to have her back; instead of carrying around a feeling of invisibility, Harry was creating new memories with her that he could relive at any point of the day.
Still, even with this new feeling that the world had somehow righted on its axis, Harry was surprised that he was visible to others as well. For the first time since arriving in the past, Harry experienced some small part of the notoriety that he'd had in the future. It began a week or so after the sleepers had returned, and Harry found himself mentioned in a Daily Prophet article.
SLEEPERS AWAKEN
By Benjamin Fenwick
It has been announced that a cure for the Draught of Living Death has been both found and implemented. In a surprise statement on Monday morning, Mr. Fleamont Potter, revealed that not only was his son, James Potter, awake and already back at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, but that with judicious use of the cure, we may see a reversal of fortune thought for decades to be permanent.
The Draught of Living Death has an illustrious and storied past, featuring in many of our histories as a dire event that has caused wizards to go to war, to depart upon fatal quests, and to give up their own lives. It is a keen torture indeed, to watch a family member sink into a slumber from which they may not awaken. However, just as not every wizard or witch is not equal in talent when it comes to potioneering, the historical Draught of Living Death was not the death sentence it became in the dark era of Gellert Grindelwald. For example, study of the medieval use of the potion reveals that it was not permanent, and only lasted for a year or two. It was often considered a justifiable political maneuver, harsh though that may seem.
But Gellert Grindelwald, or, perhaps, one of his followers, perfected a recipe that had no seeming end to its effect. Where once it was considered an act of war, its purpose shifted: Now, in the late 1920s and beyond, it has become a violent act of suppression equal to direct murder.
Now, however, with a cure, all that might change.
"It is early stages yet," cautions Fleamont Potter, "but I have reason to believe that this cure could be replicated enough that the victims of the past can be awakened here and on the Continent. And should there be more victims in the future, their fate will not be so dire." In these dark days, this is good news, indeed.
When asked how this was accomplished – for it seems an unlooked for miracle – Mr. Potter only smiled. "Well, it was a quest, of course, such as what used to happen long ago. I myself did not undertake it; quests are for far younger men than I. I am but the potioneer, not the miracle-worker. For that, you will have to thank a young Mr. Peverell." Perhaps he is being coy, as the Peverell name died out long ago. But if not, and there truly is a Peverell who is carrying on the family tradition – thank you.
Harry groaned after finishing the article. The six of them lounged in the courtyard with their books, enjoying a November day that was, if not warm, at least sunny. It was the Daily Prophet from days ago, but he was just now discovering that he had been named in one of its articles.
"What I don't understand," said Sirius, after reading over Harry's shoulder, "is why it's all the way at the back of the paper? It's big news; shouldn't it be on the front page?"
"Or not published at all," Harry grumbled. "Or at least it didn't have to mention me."
Ginny laughed while the others gave him puzzled looks.
"Harry hates attention," she explained.
"It's in the editorial section," said James. "So you won't have to deal with all that much. And besides! You ought to be front page news, as Sirius said. Buried all the way back here, only the people who read the Prophet cover to cover will see it."
"I hope so," Harry muttered.
Not for the first time, Harry wondered if Fleamont Potter had shared what he knew with his son. The way James was eyeing him – head-cocked and hazel eyes steady – Harry thought he might have. But the others had not asked Harry himself what it had taken to retrieve the Hesperidean tree roots.
"Well," said James, turning back to the article. "Dad was pretty impressed you managed it. You'll have to brace yourself for a bit of attention.
And with an inward grimace, Harry braced himself.
And there was a brief amount of attention, mostly from Slughorn and Old Bones, but none of the students seemed to care, which came to Harry as something of a relief.
For Ginny, it was more of a confusion.
On one of their walks — which they claimed quite rightly were to help her with her stamina — they found themselves alone in a tiny winter garden near the greenhouses. As they loitered around the entrance, a pair of flushed, laughing girls exited, gave Ginny a wide-eyed look as they passed, and ignored Harry as though he were a suit of armor out for an afternoon stroll.
Ginny stared after them, brow knit. "That was odd," she said, as Harry took her hand and pulled her into the garden. It was, as it usually was at this time of day, entirely empty. Still, Harry drew her toward the back, pausing at the frozen fountain for her to rest a moment, and then walked around a hedge of icy blue winter blooms. They gave off a scent of mountains and snow that reminded him of Nurmengard, which disturbed him enough that he did not notice that Ginny was still staring off from where they'd come from and was not melting into his arms as had become tradition the moment they were alone together.
"Er," said Harry.
Ginny faced him, lips twisted. "It's just odd," she said, lifting her shoulder in a shrug.
Harry stepped closer to her, cupping her chin in his hands, brushing his thumb along her jaw. "What is?"
"Those girls were looking at me, not you," she said. "Which… I know you don't like the attention, but you'd at least think they'd be curious. You pretty much pulled off a miracle. I know you'd rather it be this way, but these kids just seem — I don't know! — not very curious!"
"They were curious about you," Harry teased. "I think they thought you were quite good looking…"
She snorted, but a little color appeared in her cheeks. "Well, I know it makes you happy," she said, in a tone that dismissed the topic. "I think my head's still all muddled from the draught… why am I wasting time thinking about that?"
And then she moved so she was even closer to him, wrapping her arms around his waist and standing on her tiptoes. Harry took her at her invitation, kissing her until she held onto him tighter, kissing her until their breathing was ragged, and his whole body was warm with delight.
But after a minute or two or perhaps even ten of heated kissing, her kisses slowed and her body was slumping against his in a way that was still quite pleasant, but was not as… energetic as it had been a moment ago.
HPHPHPHPHPHP
Harry noticed over the next few days, but hesitated to point out, that none of the sleepers were quite themselves, and were still extraordinarily sleepy. His parents lay draped over textbooks, heads pillowed on arms, and appeared ready to fall asleep right there in the common room. Eyeing them over his own textbook, Advanced Transfiguration, Harry decided that they were likely to miss dinner again.
Ginny was curled up like a cat on the opposite sofa, long hair draped over the arm and nearly brushing the floor. Perhaps — if she weren't too tired — they could sneak away and have a snog. Harry relaxed in his chair, eyes half-closing, reliving a particularly happy hour the other day, when they'd managed an interlude in a deserted corridor, far from students and portraits alike.
She licked her lips, and Harry had to look away—
—and found himself locked eyes with Remus Lupin, who was looking rather sharper than the others. Harry forced a pleasant smile even as his neck warmed.
You need to be careful, he scolded himself.
He turned a page, seeing but not reading the diagrams of advanced transfigurations of animal musculature, and adopted a look he hoped was studious and pensive instead of desirous for the witch everyone thought was his sister.
After a moment, he felt Remus's curious gaze move away.
It wasn't long before the others drifted off to bed. Harry forced himself to stay in the common room, his own quiet island in the corner while the rowdier younger years took over. It had been tempting to steal away after Ginny, but the lingering shadows under her eyes told him of her need for sleep.
Still. It was tempting.
Transfiguration, Harry, he scolded himself.
But before he bent himself over his task, he pulled out a fresh piece of parchment and scrawled out a note to Mr. Potter, who had invited him to continue to ask questions. Everyone is still sleepy, he wrote, after a perfunctory greeting. Is this normal? Is it the Draught, lingering? After completing the Transfiguration tasks he'd set for himself — the first few months of the term had been a near complete wash, except for in terms of Potions — he took a late-night walk to the Owlery. It was full of the warm and restful hoots of the owls. Harry held his arm out, patiently, waiting for one of the school owls.
A brief pang had him remembering Hedwig; it did not help that the owl who had flown to him was mostly white, like Hedwig, and had the same sort of sassy head tilt.
"Take this to Fleamont Potter, would you?" Harry murmured.
He hoped Hedwig was with Ron, dividing her time between the Burrow and Hogwarts, enjoying the freedom of both. Mostly, he hoped she was cared for. The night was quiet, clear, and cold. From the Owlery, he could see the top of the Astronomy Tower, from which tiny lights shone. It was a perfect night to gaze at the stars. Harry gave them a brief squint, then whirled on his heel and plodded back the way he had come.
Later, in bed, the cold had seeped out of him, along with his missing Ron and Hedwig and everyone else he'd left behind. It was replaced by a particular heat, one he had to keep dampened for the most part during the day, the same one that had Remus giving him odd looks.
Ginny had occupied much of his thoughts over the last months, but not in the way she was doing at that particular moment, hours after she'd gone to bed. Harry lay on his back in bed, reliving the stolen moments earlier that day, when he'd caught up with her after her tutoring session. It had grown increasingly difficult to hide his body's reaction to her; the more they kissed, the greater his excitement grew, until he could look over at her in the Great Hall and find himself growing swollen beneath his robes.
It was not precisely comfortable. But, at times like this, when he was alone and thinking over those moments, it was far, far better than being comfortable.
A subtle waft of pleasure went up his spine as he thought of the way she'd brushed her fingers on his neck and tangled them in his hair. Harry pulled his covers up over his shoulders until only his head peaked out. Then, with a twinge in his stomach, he brushed his hands downward over his body, stopping briefly at his chest, where two points in particular enjoyed the touch.
But they were only a brief diversion before he went further, into the pants he wore, to find his stirring erection. Finding it, he shifted, blowing out a breath. Eyes now closed, he found Ginny behind them. His body tightened further as he stroked it, coaxing it even harder, imagining it was a smaller, softer hand circling around his shaft and pumping it slowly up and down.
The hidden alcove tucked just inside the second floor corridor was an excellent rendezvous spot. Laughter threatened to spill out and give away their position, but Harry managed to hold it in and tug Ginny out of sight in the corridor and into his arms. A quick yank on her part, and the Invisibility Cloak spilled to the floor around his ankles.
His fantasy was not long-lived. In minutes, his thoughts had blurred. The hidden alcove became just warm, bright color behind his eyelids. His breath came out in pants, holding fiercely to the image of Ginny, but even she became fragments as he came.
After blearily cleaning up his mess, Harry rolled to his stomach and was instantly asleep.
HPHPHPHPHP
The third week of November arrived with a flurry of activity, including the announcement of an unexpected feast: There were a couple of professors, the announcement read, celebrating landmark anniversaries working for Hogwarts. The announcements were eye-catching and celebratory, shooting off fireworks every thirty seconds and a canon blast of confetti every minute. The little flecks of paper drifted to the floor like snow, where they evaporated just as quickly.
Harry, his father, and his friends stood admiring one just outside one of the restrooms on the second floor corridor.
"Should we go?" Sirius asked, slumping against the wall, sighing.
"I, er, can't that day," said Remus, looking oddly furtive. "I, uh… my dad is—"
"Oh, yeah, you've got that meeting with your dad, yeah?" said James. All three were casting Harry enough looks that he did a quick mental calculation and realized the anniversary feast was situated on the day of November's full moon.
"That'll be nice," said Harry, in lieu of anything else to say. "To see your dad, I mean."
There was a little moment of silence as the other boys shuffled their feet.
"Speaking of dads," said James, shoving himself off the wall. "My dad's got a message for you." This was said with such an air of relief at the subject change that Harry was hard-pressed to hide his grin. "You two got to know each other quite well, did you?"
"A bit, yeah," said Harry. "He's a great wizard."
"I know," said James. There was a tilt to his head. "Well, he likes you, Peverell. Whatever you did to get those roots, it… he really respected that."
I only had to infiltrate Nurmengard and betray my godfather, thought Harry, remembering the frigid air and the monolith squatting upon the mountain.
"He wants to know when you'll come by again," said James.
Harry blinked at him.
"That was his message," said James. The confetti canon shot bits of paper at him, landing in his black hair. He swiped it away with a languid gesture. "He said exactly this: 'Tell Mr Peverell I'm expecting him whenever he should wish to come by.'"
"That's kind of him," murmured Harry. "I asked him if I could, you know. I've never learned so much about potions."
"He likes teaching," said Sirius.
"He also said," said James, with a flicker of his eyelids, "that you sent him a letter. And he wanted you to know that everything is exactly as it should be. What does that mean?"
Feeling suddenly cornered, Harry said, "Erm, I just asked him, you know"—he gestured at them—"the, uh, sleepiness is normal."
All three traded a look.
"It's getting better," said Sirius, touching his nose. "I myself only slept sixteen hours last night."
They laughed.
As one, they turned down the corridor, Harry matching his pace to the others, who seemed faster than they had been even two weeks ago.
Still, when the day of the feast arrived, neither they nor Ginny felt particularly up to it. Once done with his classes for the day, Harry hurried up to Gryffindor Tower, hoping to find Ginny dressed and ready, as there were sure to be opportunities to sneak away, just the two of them, during a large feast.
Instead, he found her and his parents, Sirius, and Remus already in pajamas and dressing gowns. Harry faltered just inside the portrait hole, dismay warring with amusement at the sight.
"Peverell!" said James. "There you are."
"Here I am," Harry agreed. "You're going to the feast in your pajamas?"
"Erm," said James.
"Actually…" said Sirius.
"We're not going," announced Ginny. "I'm sorry, Harry…"
His shoulders slumped. There went his small fantasies of sneaking away during the feast. "Are you lot going bed, then?" he asked.
"Maybe not just yet," said Lily, hesitant. "But I'm not far off."
"It was a long day," added Remus.
"I was hoping you could do me a favor," said James, before Harry could mention it was barely three in the afternoon.
"What is it?" Harry asked.
James reached over the back of the sofa and retrieved a wrapped gift. "Can you give this to Old Bones for me? I wanted to make sure he got this…"
"Oh," said Harry. "Yeah. Of course I can take it."
The deep shadows under his father's eyes accentuated the weariness in his voice. "I wish I could go. I love Old Bones; he's the coolest teacher we've got, hands down."
"Yeah, he is," said Sirius, words muffled as he had his face pressed into the carpet. "Remember he told us where some of the passages are?"
"That's right!" James said, laughing. "That was what, our third week of third year?"
"You were so innocent then," Lily teased. "Now I'm sure the two of you could teach him a passage or two."
"Or three," Sirius boasted.
"But you'll give it to him, will you?" James turned back to Harry. "I'm knackered from this week, honestly—"
"I understand," said Harry, smiling. "Yeah, I'll take it to him. But what about McGonagall."
"We saw her today," said Ginny. "She was tutoring us."
"That's why we're so tired," Sirius said with a groan.
"Got it," said Harry. "Well, yeah."
His father gave a lazy flick of his wand, and the neatly wrapped present zoomed from his lap to Harry, colliding with his chest and nearly tumbling to the ground before Harry caught it. Sirius, however, was not quite so prepared. Instead, he wrote a hasty note on a bit of parchment he pulled out of his pocket. "Couldn't have asked for a better Divination professor," Sirius read out loud. "Thanks for everything."
"That's sweet," Ginny said warmly.
Their eyes met. This was hardly the first time Harry had felt a pang while spending time with the younger version of his godfather. Thrusting down his frustration — perhaps Dumbledore was right, and Sirius would come around — he shoved up to his feet.
"Might as well get on with it," he said.
By all accounts, the anniversary feast was going to be one for the ages, but everyone Harry cared to spend time with at that dinner were planning to stay in Gryffindor Tower. So, mindful of his promise to his young father and godfather, Harry swung by the Divination classroom after his final class of the day ended. Slytherin and Ravenclaw fourth years streamed out of the door just as he came up to it, chattering excitedly and eyeing him curiously. There was a festive sort of hum in the air, owing to the feast.
"—Dumbledore said—"
"Did you see—?"
"—hoping it means lots of presents!" said a girl, who sounded like she could have been a twin of Dudley Dursley.
Harry was through the door just in time to see a smiling Old Bones and Dumbledore walk through the interior door of the classroom leading to Old Bones's office.
"I'll be right with you," Old Bones promised, weathered face wreathed with smiles, deep grooves in his cheeks deepening. "I'm certain Professor Dumbledore here is about to offer me a pay raise on account of my anniversary…"
Dumbledore chuckled. "Dear me," he said, "I wonder if perhaps you're right."
"I'm hoping to be," said Old Bones. "A moment, Harry."
Harry waved, then, shifting his bundle in his hands, he peered at the large desk in the center of the room. His father and Sirius were not the only ones who had thought to give Old Bones a note or a gift: The desk nearly overflowed with parchment, baskets of everything from oranges to cheese, and pots of charmed flowers and even one very small tree, purportedly from the entire Quidditch team of Pride of Portree. The card read "Thanks for 'Seeing' that we needed Harmonius Fletch as a Seeker – congratulations from the team upon the occasion of your anniversary!". A kitten, on a jeweled leash attached to the handle of a desk drawer, rolled over onto its back, exposing a fluffy white tummy, and blinked up at Harry. Smiling, he tickled it under its chin, then looked around for a free spot to place the gifts on.
Fresh laughter trickled out of the cracked door.
Harry jostled some letters aside, making space, and accidentally sent a letter winging to the floor.
"Oops," he said, stooping to pick it up, idly wondering if Professor McGonagall had a similar display on her desk. Surely, she would, though he wondered if perhaps Old Bones was a smidge more popular. Here, an R.A.B. thanked Old Bones for lighted paths and open doors. Settling it on top of Sirius's note, he stepped back, wondering, for the first time, if he ought to have brought a gift of his own.
Instead, he pulled a spare bit of parchment from his bag, wrote a congratulations and signed his name — having to do some fancy scribbling as he wrote P-O-T-T before correcting himself. He was just tucking his quill back in the pocket of his robes when the inner door pushed open.
Old Bones was beaming as he came back out of his office, with Dumbledore on his heels.
The two, Harry realized suddenly, had to be nearly of an age, though he would be hard-pressed to find similarities between the two aside from their age. Dumbledore was tall and had long white hair that fell past his elbows. Old Bones looked like he might have run afoul of a charm, considering how crazily his short hair sprang out in every direction.
"Erm," said Harry, "Congratulations on your anniversary, Professor."
"Thank you, my friend," said Old Bones, with great good cheer and a sweeping gesture. "I've just got a bonus that ensures I'll stay – oh – another ten years or so before I ask for another one."
Harry laughed along with Dumbledore. "I brought you something from James – James Potter and Sirius Black, they say they're sorry they'll be missing the feast." Harry tilted his head toward the desk. "They're still tired, you know."
Old Bones's face fell into a more serious expression. "As I've heard," he said. "Quite a shock," he muttered, "quite a shock."
"Yes," said Harry. "But I'm glad they've woken up."
Shaking his head, Old Bones muttered something else. Harry felt a prickle of guilt at having brought his mood down.
Dumbledore swooped in, taking pity on him. "Mr. Peverell, if you would allow me to walk with you, I have a favor to ask of you."
"All right," said Harry, tossing one more wave at Old Bones. "Congratulations, again!"
Dumbledore led him out the door and out into the corridor; Harry matched his stride to his. Did he truly have a favor to ask of Harry? Glancing at him out of the corner of his eye, Harry wondered if, instead of a favor, Dumbledore wished to ask him about the elder Sirius Black. And what did Harry tell him? It had been nearly a month since Nurmengard; Harry had not seen him since, nor had he heard from him. Considering that, Harry wondered, for what must have been the fortieth time, if he ought to use the enchanted mirrors to at least try…
"Are you wondering where Sir-Sol is, because I–"
"I had thought to ask, Mr. Peverell, if you would accompany me–"
They both spoke at nearly the same instant, words tangling together. Harry stopped in the corridor, just inside the arch that led to the grand, moving staircases.
"Sir?" asked Harry, relieved that Dumbledore did not, in fact, want to speak about Harry's erstwhile godfather.
"I've an… errand to run," said Dumbledore, with a slight bow of his head. "I'd like to meet with a relative of Simon Burke's, in fact, but I think I might have an easier time of it if you accompany me."
Harry blinked at him. "Simon Burke. He was the one who woke up with the others?" His thoughts had seemed to stall. "You want to meet with him?"
"His grandparents, actually. They will have read the recent article that quoted Fleamont Potter," explained Dumbledore. Behind his half-moon glasses, blue eyes were very serious. Neither of them moved toward the staircase, which had just connected with their landing with a thud. After a pause, it moved away again. "The Burke family is very old, you see, and very prideful. Should I attempt to request a meeting with one of them, I fear that they would tell me where I may place my request."
Despite himself, Harry laughed.
Dumbledore did not seem offended. "But they will know that they owe you for the return of one of their own."
"But – sir – I didn't do it for them," protested Harry. "They don't owe me–"
"You may not think that they do," said Dumbledore, "but they will think so. Again, like most of the older families, they are very prideful…"
Harry was silent for a moment, thoughts chugging. Did he want a family like the Burke's to owe him something? It was not a very comfortable thought.
"You do not have to agree," Dumbledore said quietly. "I'm confident that I could eventually wrangle an invitation to speak to Mr. Burke, it just seemed to be more expedient should I take you with me."
"No, I'll do it," said Harry. "I'll do it."
"Excellent, Mr. Peverell," said Dumbledore, beaming at him the way he'd been beaming at Old Bones. "I shall be in touch, shall I? To find a time that would work with both of our schedules?"
Harry shrugged. "I wouldn't say no if you wanted to go during one of my classes," he offered.
Dumbledore laughed and clapped him on the shoulder. The moving staircase approached them once more; this time, both of them stepped onto it. Harry leaned against the white railing, gazing up above them, where staircases were in constant motion and students were jostling one another. None of them paid them any attention — exactly as he liked it.
HPHPHPHPHPHP
"So, what do you think?" asked Harry, much later that evening. Instead of attending the feast, Harry had nicked enough food for Ginny and the others, hiding under his invisibility cloak as he did so.
Ginny was brushing out the undersides of her long hair, seated on a chair and head between her knees. "I think it's funny," she said finally.
"How so?" Harry asked, confused.
She parted her hair like a curtain, revealing her grinning face. "Remember what Dorcas Meadowes said… whenever you go—"
"—there you are," said Harry.
"Yeah," said Ginny. "Dumbledore doesn't even know — he couldn't have any idea — and yet… he's still taking you in his confidence."
Harry looked at her. "Except," he said quietly, and with little heat, "he hasn't, really. And…"
"He did keep things from you," said Ginny. "But you spent more time with him than any of the rest of us."
Harry caught her hand in his, squeezing it, suddenly grateful that the others had started complaining of sleepiness before seven and that Ginny had wanted to stay up a little later. But he could tell, by her slow blinks, that she was fading fast. He traced the lines on her palm with his thumb. "I'd rather spend more time with you," he said finally. This was true, but he had to admit that the idea of heading off with Dumbledore tugged at him, intriguing him.
Yawning widely, Ginny squeezed his hand. "And I wish I were heading off with you both."
An idea struck him. "D'you want me to ask him if it can wait—"
"No," she said, waving it off. "Mr. Potter says it could be another couple of weeks to build up stamina; I don't want to wait that long to see what Dumbledore's up to." She gave him a sheepish grin. "I'm curious."
"Me too," Harry told her.
HPHPHPHPHP
When Dumbledore suggested the following Saturday that they make that visit to Simon Burke in Knockturn Alley, Harry went along with the old professor alone. There were small apartments above the shops in the alley, just as there were in its brighter twin. Simon Burke was recuperating there; and so, for the second time in his life, Harry entered Borgin&Burke's.
Hands in the pockets of his robes, Harry gazed around the store. It was rather more cluttered with objects to buy than it would be in the future: there were shelves along the back wall that were crammed with every sort of object Harry could think of: teapots that whistled a dirge, white gloves floating beside it; a compass the size of Harry's head that appeared to be pointing toward a destination that was not north. This last one was inlaid with pearls and opals and looked so enticing for some reason that Harry shook himself and looked away, deciding he did not want to know where that particular compass would lead him.
But then he saw something even more curious: bright blond hair stood out among the dark and heavy items for sale. His old professor, Marlene McKinnon, stood behind a great desk, staring at Dumbledore.
"Professor!" he said. She had never come back after being reprimanded for going to a family gathering during the height of the pox. "You're—"
"Working here now, yes," she said cheerfully.
Another glance around the room showed that it was just as dark as ever. He could not imagine a less likely place for Sirius's girlfriend. "But doesn't your family have a shop?"
"They do," she said, with just as much cheer. "And I've learned a lot from them, but it was time to… be my own person." Her eyelashes flickered. "It's a lot to live and work with your family. I didn't realize how much until last year, when I was up at the castle."
"Oh, but—"
"The McKinnon loss is the Borgin gain."
"Ah, Esmund," said Dumbledore.
A tall, thin figure had just emerged from a shadowy corner, holding a wand and a soiled handkerchief. There was a smile on his angular face, but a wariness in how he approached Dumbledore.
"Albus," said the man. "It has been an age."
"I don't tend to find myself in Knockturn Alley very often," Dumbledore said politely. "Esmund — this is my young friend Harry Peverell. Harry, may I introduce my old schoolmate, Mr. Esmund Borgin. I must say, your shop is flourishing."
"But not too much," Mr. Borgin said, after a quick, curious look at Harry. "We had Arthur Weasley from the Ministry here just last week… Is he truly a Peverell, Albus?"
"Indeed he is," said Dumbledore.
"I am," said Harry. He'd been Harry Peverell so long the lie rolled off his tongue with ease. Even when Borgin stared at him much too long, as though wondering how much he, Harry, would be worth should Borgin decide to sell him.
"Ah," Borgin said finally. "What do I owe the pleasure of this… visit?"
"I have two reasons, in fact," said Dumbledore, unperturbed. "Firstly, I would like to arrange an appointment with your partner."
"I'm afraid that Diomedes is out of the country this week—"
"Not Diomedes, but Caractacus," Dumbledore interrupted smoothly.
Borgin's eyebrows rose. "Caractacus. Well. I shall tell him you called." Doubt was heavy in his tone. Harry suspected that he did not think Caractacus would be willing to meet with Dumbledore. "He does not leave his rooms often, you know."
"Yes," said Dumbledore. "I'm fortunate I have the students to keep me young, otherwise I might wish to retire to my apartments and spend the remainder of my life with my books."
Borgin scribbled a note on a bit of parchment. With a flick of his wand, it winged upward, disappearing into a crack in the ceiling. "And what is the other, Albus?"
"I've an appointment with his grandson," said Dumbledore, now amused again. "It seems my time to reacquaint myself with the Burkes."
"How truly lucky they are."
After dropping the handkerchief on the desk, Borgin strode to the small door behind the counter. Without a word, he opened it, revealing the start of dark, twisting stairs. Dumbledore followed, seeming quite comfortable to wander further into this warren of dark objects. Harry's stomach dropped, ever so slightly, but he started after Dumbledore, pausing only when he reached Professor McKinnon.
"If you see — uh — Sol." Harry's tongue tripped; he nearly said Sirius. "If you see him, tell him I—"
The friendliness was gone from her face now. "I don't think I will be," she said coldly, turning away, and making herself busy with a stack of handwritten receipts on parchment.
"Mr. Peverell," Dumbledore said from the door. "We've an appointment, you and I."
HPHPHPHPHPHP
The upstairs corridor strongly reminded Harry of a larger version of the space above the bar at the Hog's Head: small, cramped, and slightly dank. There were differences, however: Aberforth had not paneled the walls with portraits of grim-faced men and women, all holding something that glittered in the half-light of the torches along the wall. There were murmurs coming from behind the doors; edging slightly closer to Dumbledore, mindful of where they were and who might be living here, Harry was relieved when they were led up another set of rickety stairs and into a sitting room that seemed larger than what the space allowed for.
It was empty of anyone save the two of them: Borgin disappeared back down the stairs with a curt nod.
Utterly tranquil, Dumbledore took a seat on a spindly sofa, humming a little as he sat.
Harry did not sit, feeling too agitated to do so, but crossed the room to peer at the wallpaper. "It's just like Grimmauld Place!" Harry said, in a whisper shout. There, upon the wall, was a family tree that could be twin to that which was a proud portrayal of Sirius's family's pureblooded lineage…
"Grimmauld Place?" Dumbledore said with great interest.
"Yeah," said Harry, eyes bouncing up to the shadowy top of what he realized now was not wallpaper at all, but a very thin, very detailed tapestry. Instead of The Noble and Most Ancient House of Black, this one read The Stalwart House of Burke… their motto, instead of "toujours pur", was "emptores veritatis". Harry mouthed the words, tripping only slightly over the Latin. "What does that mean?" he asked Dumbledore. "I know it's something about truth…"
"It means," said a new voice, female and old, "'merchants of truth'."
"Indeed," said Dumbledore, rising. "Ah, Mrs. Burke. It has been an age."
"Yes." The woman who entered was the same woman who had been sitting beside Simon Burke's bed when he woke up, and who had whisked him away when he grew agitated. Her hair was down, more white than gray, and spilling down to her elbows. "Welcome," she added, after a pause that hung on much too long.
Harry was still struggling over the idea that the owners of the most notorious shop in Knockturn Alley considered themselves 'merchants of truth'. Merchants of the Dark Arts, he thought. When he might have opened his mouth to say this out loud, he saw, instead, a subtle shake of Dumbledore's head. With a faint grimace, Harry turned back to the tapestry. Here, as on the Black family tree, there were several generations of Burke's going back so far that Harry fancied they might have been among some of the first students to ever attend Hogwarts.
Scanning it, as the two elders murmured politely at one another, his gaze dropped to the bottom, where Simon Burke was listed beside three sisters. Caractacus had only had two children; the Black family had been far more fecund, Harry supposed. The other, a daughter named Glory, had a delicate thread of a line binding her to a Nicholas Hornby. Squinting, Harry looked at the three children they had: Homer, Olive, and Pontus. Olive? Where had he heard of her before–?
"-will be happy to see him," said Dumbledore, in a loud enough voice that Harry's train of thought vaporized. "Mr. Peverell was grateful that he could help."
Turning, just as the old lady – who Harry now assumed was Proserpina Burke – said, "And we are grateful to him. Allow me to ring the bell."
She turned in her seat. Harry crossed the room again to sit in the closest chair to Dumbledore, careful to test it before he trusted its spindly legs. By the time a young woman in black robes and a small, white witch's cap came in, guiding a shuffling Simon Burke, Harry was well-situated and prepared to embody the role Dumbledore had entrusted him.
"Ah," said Dumbledore, coming to his feet, a genuine, gentle smile on his face and an equally genuine warmth emanating from him. "Mr. Burke. It does this old man good to see you awake."
Simon, who had appeared half-asleep on his feet, blinked at Dumbledore. "Professor?" he said shakily. "Professor Dumbledore, is that you?"
"Indeed," said Dumbledore, reaching for Simon's hand, pumping it in his. "I appear much aged, I assume?"
"Not that much," Simon assured him. "Not like me, anyway. I hardly even recognize myself in the – in the–"
Mrs. Burke made a loud sound. Simon sagged into a seat, putting his face in his hands, and beginning to weep.
"How is he?" Dumbledore asked with deep concern.
"He is… he has much…" Mrs. Burke drew in a deep breath, where it rattled in her chest in a way Harry thought slightly alarming. "He has nightmares," she finally admitted baldly, while her grandson still wept into his hands. "He's always had them, even before Hogwarts. Even before… the Draught."
"Dear me," said Dumbledore, "I did not know this."
"Only his Head of House knew," said Mrs. Burke. "We didn't want it advertised."
"Well," said Dumbledore, "that is a sorrow. Do you know what–"
"As a matter of fact, we do know," said Mrs. Burke. "When Simon was a young boy – actually. Simon, my love," her voice gentled, becoming tender, "Why don't you go back with Miss Ellacott? They're ever so glad to have seen you."
Simon stood, nodding and wiping his eyes. "I'm sorry," he said miserably. "I'm so sorry."
"It is quite all right, Mr. Burke," said Dumbledore. "I am certain you will recover fully–"
"Yeah," Harry put in, "The others aren't fully recovered yet, and they weren't asleep as long as you."
"Really?" Simon's eyes widened. "Well, thank you. And thank you," he repeated, staring at Harry. "I know you're the one who helped me – you and Mr. Potter. Thank you."
"You're welcome," said Harry, now uncomfortable, wishing that he had not spoken. "Mr. Potter – he did most of it, you know."
"But you helped." Mrs. Burke's beady eyes were now on him. Simon was being ushered out of the room by the silent, pale-faced Miss Ellacott. He tripped over the threshold, but she was there, murmuring at him. The door shut with a gentle click.
"I did," admitted Harry.
She crossed her legs, adjusting her robes, and keeping her eyes on him. "Well?"
"Erm," said Harry, "I, uh, beg your pardon?"
She eyed him a moment, then looked down at her hands in her lap. "Simon has been special to us," she said, as solemn as though it were a confession. "There was an… incident," she added, flicking her gaze to Dumbledore, then back to her hands. "He was young when his mother disappeared–"
"Disappeared?" Harry asked.
"Yes," said Mrs. Burke. "Disappeared. It was here, in the shop – she helped us, you know; she was a good girl, our daughter-in-law. A half-blood, you know… But an excellent witch, and she helped us with the inventory, even when the children were little. She'd have them in the storeroom with snacks and toys and she'd help. Had two strong arms and a nice wand, that one. It's hard to believe we ever argued with our son over his choice, but… she couldn't help that her grandmother was a muggleborn."
Harry shifted so he was sitting on his hands. That poor daughter-in-law, he thought wryly.
"She had the children in the back room, like always, but by the time Caractacus returned – he was attending an estate sale in Dorset that day – Dovina was gone and Simon was screaming."
"In the storeroom?" Harry asked.
"No," said Mrs. Burke. "He'd escaped – he was an artist at escaping, Simon was. Caractacus caught him up, but he was still screaming about a mirror… all his life, it's been about a mirror. He said his mama fell into a mirror and he followed her into a nightmare. Of course, he didn't say any of that in so many words. He was only four." She chewed on her lip. "We helped our son with them, after that. He never really got over her disappearance – neither my son, nor my grandson. Caractacus had to step in as a father – and believe me, he was old even when our children were born."
"But still sharp," murmured Dumbledore. "I remember he was already well-regarded when I was a young student at Hogwarts."
"Hmm," she said. "Diplomatic of you, Dumbledore."
There was a bit of silence. Harry thought of asking for a glass of water, but as no refreshments had been supplied, he felt churlish for asking. Then, as though in reply to his thoughts, a door opened and a tea service floated out, bobbing in the air. There was a crest on the service, quite as ornate as anything from Grimmauld Place.
"Tea?" she offered.
"I would be delighted," said Dumbledore.
"Please," said Harry.
Once they'd had their tea poured – orchestrated with economical charms from Mrs. Burke's wand – Harry took a sip, following her lead. It was hot and pleasantly spiced, though he couldn't name the particular spice. It quenched his thirst, and he was enjoying a second sip when:
"Well, we owe you," Mrs. Burke said abruptly.
"I, er, what?" said Harry.
"Our family," she said stiffly, "Owe you for the return of one of our sons."
"I didn't do it so that anyone would owe me," said Harry. "You don't have to give me anything. I'm just glad everyone's awake."
Mrs. Burke eyed him, incredulous. "We are not paupers," she pointed out.
"I don't need money," said Harry.
"We have quite a number of magical artifacts," she offered, her incredulity growing. "You could take your pick. I had that from my husband himself."
"I, er, can't think of anything I would like," said Harry. Not from here, anyway.
"We do not like being in debt," said Mrs. Burke.
"But I don't need anything," said Harry.
"What if Mr. Peverell could transfer your debt?" Dumbledore said. "To me, perhaps?"
Shock widened the old lady's eyes; suspicion narrowed them to tiny points. "So that's what this visit is about, eh, Dumbledore? You're that clever a wizard, aren't you?" This did not sound like a compliment. "There's us Burkes, tricked. What will it be? A promise to sell only that which you, Albus Dumbledore, approve? To close our shop?" Bright color appeared in pale cheeks, and she spat: "What do you want?"
"Hardly anything at all," said Dumbledore, unruffled and amiable. "None of those things, in fact. All I want"-and here he leaned forward, and Harry caught a glimpse of an intensity in the older man that surprised him–"is a memory or two."
"A memory," Mrs. Burke repeated. "A memory or two."
"Precisely," said Dumbledore, smiling. "Nothing at all onerous. I doubt you shall even miss them."
"I'll be the judge of that," snapped Mrs. Burke. "Well, which memories would you have? I will have to tell Caractacus, of course."
"Of course," said Dumbledore. He made an elegant gesture with his wand. Several empty bottles appeared, corked, and set gently on the table beside the sofa. "I came prepared. But it is your choice, of course, yours and Caractacus's, should you wish to discharge your debt."
"And what memories would these be?" Mrs. Burke demanded.
"Nothing too difficult," said Dumbledore. "You hired a young man just out of Hogwarts decades ago… surely you remember young Tom Riddle?"
All the air sucked out of the room. Harry had thought Mrs. Burke's eyes blown wide with shock before; now he saw them grow even wider. This, he suspected, was from fear.
"Him," she whispered.
"Indeed," said Dumbledore, just as softly.
Her gaze flickered wildly, from closed door to empty landing atop the stair, to the two windows behind her. Her wand moved, and a spell squelched around the windows and the doors. From the ceiling above the landing, a door dropped down. In the space of a few moments, the sitting room went from large and open to feeling very small and claustrophobic. Harry rubbed at the back of his neck, forcing his expression to remain neutral.
"They are not what you might be looking for," Mrs. Burke said finally, in no louder of a voice. "He worked with us for three years. We never once had cause to… He was an excellent worker."
"I am merely looking for information," Dumbledore assured her, at nearly the same volume as she used. Harry looked between the two. "I will decide the value. But it will be enough that the Burkes will owe no debt."
Mrs. Burke bowed her head for another long, silent minute. "I will ask… allow me a moment with my husband?"
"Of course," Dumbledore said kindly.
Once she'd left the room, Harry sprung to his feet, restless, and wishing she had reopened the room before she'd gone to her husband. Prowling in front of the tapestry, he read and immediately forgot the names of past Burkes. Tom Riddle worked for Borgin and Burkes, he told himself. Well, and where else would he work? This sort of place was dark enough for him. But – and here Harry's steps faltered – where was the prestige in it? Tom Riddle had gone to style himself as a lord. Why would he work in a shop, even a shop such as this?
"Are you certain–"
But Dumbledore made a silencing gesture.
Harry grimaced and returned to his pacing.
It seemed hours by the time Mrs. Burke reentered the room.
"-and keep them!" A very loud, very cranky voice followed her. "And tell Albus Dumbledore where he can shove–"
The door slammed shut. Mrs. Burke slumped into her chair. "He has agreed to your terms," she said, as though they had not just heard for themselves a rather ruder version. "And has also been generous enough to allow you to keep them in perpetuity."
Harry nearly laughed.
But Mrs. Burke was true to her word. She allowed Dumbledore to place his wand on her temple, withdrawing the silvery stuff of memory. There had to have been more than a couple, for several bottles were filled and then vanished. "You won't get any better from my husband," said Mrs. Burke. "I was… I had the most contact." Tom Riddle's name had not been spoken again since the first time. Still, it hung there like an oppressive cloud, nearly as cursed as the name Lord Voldemort. "But Caractacus said that if you still require it, you may enter his chambers and retrieve what you need from him, as well."
"I had better," said Dumbledore. "Thank you, Mrs. Burke. If you will allow me?"
She nodded, waving him toward the door. Once it shut behind him, Mrs. Burke sank onto the sofa, narrow shoulders slumping. There was no move to alleviate the protections on the sitting room; it grew oppressive, her charms did, until he distracted himself by looking once more at the tapestry. There were rather a lot of Burkes; Harry wondered if they were all of the same mold, entranced by cursed objects. Perhaps not; Simon did seem all right.
"It's been in the family for generations," said Mrs. Burke. "And an identical one hangs in the Halls of Heritage and another at the old family estate, which now belongs to another line."
"Oh," Harry said, polite as he could be. What exactly were the Halls of Heritage? "That's—"
Rescue appeared in the form of the creak of a door opening. Expecting Dumbledore, he was startled to see a much calmer-looking Simon Burke, who had brushed out his hair.
"Granny," he said, "I'm sorry about earlier—"
"It is quite all right," said Mrs. Burke, warmth seeping into her tone. "My dear, you can wait for me in the other room, if you wish."
"Unnecessary," said Simon. His gaze wandered to Harry. "Where'd Professor Dumbledore go? I wanted to show him the new set of gobstones I got… He sponsored me to join the Gobstones Club, did you know?"
Harry had the sudden, uncanny impression that despite his looks, Harry was speaking to someone his age, or even slightly younger. There was a blurry sort of hopefulness on his face. "I didn't know," said Harry, turning toward him fully. "But that seems like the sort of thing he'd do."
"He's nice."
"Yes," said Harry.
Simon flopped down on the sofa and put his feet up in the rather delicate-looking coffee table. Mrs. Burke shifted in her chair, possibly about to lean forward and admonish her grandson. But she kept quiet instead, her movement aborted.
"Did I hear him ask about Tom Riddle?" Simon asked, casual and at-ease.
"You did, yeah," said Harry, his grip tightening on the arm rest. "Did you know him, then?"
"Everyone knows Tom," said Simon, nodding, either ignoring or unaware of his grandmother's sudden, hawklike regard. "Olive is mad for him. She never shut up about him, did she—"
"Simon—"
"—well, it's true, you know how she is, Granny."
"Simon." Mrs. Burke's voice cracked out. "We do not speak of him."
Simon's face crumpled. In the space of a few moments, Harry watched Simon the schoolboy melt away, his youthful cheer sliding into the despair of an adult haunted by the loss of thirty years. A storm built on his face, and broke. "I'm sorry," he spat. "Merlin, woman." He launched himself to his feet. "I can't speak of a chum I had at school, can I?"
"You would call him your chum?" Harry asked.
"You must think I'm stupid," Simon said, ignoring Harry's question. "All these things I can't say!"
"I do not think you are stupid." Mrs. Burke was slowly regaining color. "You misunderstand—"
But Simon was gone, slamming out of the room. After, there was an awkward silence. Harry had the sense that Mrs. Burke was wishing to be alone, that he, Harry, had overstayed his welcome. He had the wistful thought that if Ginny were here, she'd be able to charm her into talking again. But instead, he remained seated, tapping his tea cup with his fingernail, until Dumbledore reappeared some thirty minutes later.
"Thank you," Harry said, coming to his feet and settling his cup on its saucer. "Thank you, Mrs. Burke… for the tea."
"You're welcome," she said stiffly. "Thank you for the return of my grandson. I trust you will keep everything in confidence?"
"I will," Harry promised. Aside from Ginny, he would tell no one. Not even Sirius, should he break their silence and contact him again.
Mrs. Burke eyed him for a long moment. "Thank you," she said at last. "You may consider our debt repaid."
"And we thank you for it," said Dumbledore.
It took a minute for the wards to dissipate and for the windows and doors to reappear. Shoulders relaxing, Harry murmured his final goodbyes to Mrs. Burke and Simon — who seemed to have forgotten his earlier ire, peeked out of his room, and tossed Harry and Dumbledore a smile and a wave. It was a particularly cruel thing that had been done to him, Harry thought. He'd gone to sleep a child and woken up middle-aged; Harry did not think he would have enjoyed that particular sort of time travel.
Harry was quiet as they walked down the stairs, and through the store. Professor McKinnon was still behind the counter, now helping a trio of witches who'd come in wearing heavy cloaks to hide their faces. Still curious at her presence here, Harry stared at her, nearly bumping into the wall as he left.
But he didn't break his silence until they were halfway down Knockturn Alley, and someone dumped a mixture of newt eggs and feathered toad slime out a third story window, where it splattered on the cobblestones, Dumbledore's hat, and the lower third of Harry's robes.
Dumbledore swept his wand over his spangled wizard hat: the gooey newt eyes swept away, flinging off into the dinginess of Knockturn Alley, where they burst into flame. Once clean, he settled it back atop his head.
"But what," Harry said in a low whisper, ignoring the fact potions ingredients had just been flung at them, whether purposeful or not, "was Marlene McKinnon doing there? I thought her family had their own shop."
"And they do," said Dumbledore, glancing down the alley where the hag, grinning widely at him and waggling her fingers, once more offered her wares. "Let us depart here, Mr. Peverell."
A sooty rain began to fall, splattering on the grime of the windows of Borgin & Burke's. Through it, the blond hair of Harry's former Professor seemed the only color. One last look at the harsh beak of Simon Burke's grandfather, and Harry turned after Dumbledore, filling him through the narrow alley cluttered with street vendors peddlers thrust toward them, promising long life, love potions that never wore off, and hidden wealth.
One witch thrust a tiny bottle at him. "Felix Felicis for the boy?" she cooed. "A little luck, hm? You can steal it from me at five galleons a bottle…"
"Erm, no thanks," said Harry.
"Excellent decision," said Dumbledore, just as they turned one more corner and found themselves in the wider, though no less rainy, Diagon Alley.