Here Be Monsters

Sunday, 30 June, 1996

1047 GMT

I finish my breakfast under Iris' watchful eye. I am very anxious to begin this morning's conversation, but I fear that the good elf would attack me with her feather duster. And I have to admit, after a long and dreamless sleep the leisurely breakfast is welcome.

I just wish I were not so worried about Harry. Iris assures me that Minerva set off via floo with Harry's Firebolt right after the staff breakfast this morning. If she had found anything terribly out of joint, she would have notified me by now. Still, I can't help but be concerned.

After finishing my third helping of jalapeno omelets (Iris makes them herself and they are truly works of art), I rise and go into my office. The person with whom I wish to speak is waiting for me there, as of course I knew he would be. I settle us both down comfortably and wait silently for him to begin.

"Albus Dumbledore," the familiar dry voice is extremely comforting to me, and I am very glad that Iris had this idea, "didn't I Sort you, oh, one hundred and thirty-five years ago?"

"Why yes, I believe you did." I can't help but smiling. The Sorting Hat's sense of humor is an acquired taste, but once acquired it stays with you.

"Surely you don't want to argue with me about it now? I had enough trouble with you at the time. I thought I was going to have to get somebody to kick you off the stool!" The Hat growls amicably at the memory.

//Oh my, it's old time week.//

"Still having identity problems, I see," the Hat continues. "Why in the name of sanity are you still playing THAT game?"

"I'm not playing," I admit softly. "He seems to stick around despite my best efforts to get rid of him."

"Don't try THAT with ME." The Hat stirs on my head. "You haven't been trying very hard and you know it!"

"I suppose not. He does help to motivate me."

"I should hope so. But kindly try to keep him shut up. The last time I had to deal with multiple personalities my seams hurt for a week."

I remember that. It was a tragic case of a muggle born girl whose parents, members of a fringe religious sect, had her exorcised repeatedly once her powers began to manifest. By the time she came to us she had a Slytherin and two Ravenclaws in the same body.

"So, what is it you want, Albus? Something to do with Harry Potter I'd bet my brim!"

"Why do you say that?" I ask, more to make conversation than anything else.

"That boy attracts more trouble than anybody around this castle for the last thousand years, that's why!" The Hat's growl seems perfunctory. "Doubtless the reason he's such an interesting case."

I smile again. Iris was of course correct. The Hat is the one person at Hogwarts, and almost assuredly in all of Britain, who has more knowledge and experience of wizards than Minerva and me.

"He is that," I allow. "And it does have to do with him."

"And with you," the Hat rejoinds.

I am surprised at that. I had not expected to get to that part of the conversation so quickly.

"Are you forgetting," the Hat continues, "that I am probably, by definition, the greatest Legilimens in the world? Especially when you are wearing me!"

I had never thought of that before.

"Well you should! I'm not just here to keep the rain off your head you know!"

"I am aware of that," I say, a little testily, "not that you would ever let us form such an opinion. And would you please wait until I actually SAY something to you before you respond?"

"I suppose I could," the Hat sighs, "if you want to do this the boring, slow way."

"Humor me."

"Well, as I have nothing else to do this morning, I suppose I shall."

"Have I interrupted anything?" I am sure I have not, else I would have an earful of it by now.

"Not much," the Hat admitted, "I was just beginning to compose my song for the Welcome Feast. Although I don't know why I bother. You certainly none of you listened to me this past year!"

I think the message he had delivered at the last Welcome Feast. It had emphasized that the Houses should come together. And he is right that no one heeded his advice.

"Maybe you should be even more forceful about that this year."

"I will come up with my own song, thank you very much!" The Hat actually sounds hurt. "And you are a fine one to talk!"

"I am quite aware of my mistakes of this year." Isn't it strange how we can stand to berate ourselves but can never quite come to terms with someone else criticizing us?

"You should be." The Hat is not known for being either kind or patient. "Such a complete fiasco is rare in my experience, at least short of out and out war."

"That seems to be what we have on our hands now."

"So it is, all the more reason to LISTEN to me for a change. Last year I thought I made it clear that everyone had to come together. That means COMMUNICATION in case you don't understand. But what happens? Let's see, as I recall you ignored Harry Potter in order to protect him. Potter in turn broke off communication with just about everybody he wasn't shouting at. Meanwhile the Houses went their own merry ways. And now we have open war, a school torn by fear and dissension, a ministry about to come apart, and an entire wizarding community on the point of hysteria from having to face something they were determined to deny and ignore until it killed them - which it still very will may. Have I missed anything?"

And I thought Severus was snippy.

"Severus," the Hat snorts, blithely ignoring its promise not to respond to unspoken thoughts. "When you are half as old as I am you can complain about someone being snippy with you."

"And that brings me to what I want to talk about. As I am sure you can tell, I have had quite a time in regard to Harry and Severus lately."

"Yes I can see that," the Hat's voice is suddenly much calmer and less sarcastic. "I take it you want to talk over the complexities of the matter?"

"If you would not mind. As Iris says, you have an immense amount of experience with wizards and their problems."

"Oh yes," the Hat's voice is suddenly soft, "That I do." Suddenly my mind is filled with images - faces and voices, names and thoughts ---

a young woman dressed in twelfth century finery, her thoughts filled with apprehension...

a blond boy in a cut-down version of Victorian evening wear, trying hard to appear brave while trembling inside...

a dark-haired girl wearing a gown from Queen Anne's era, her face passive while dreams of power crowded her imagination....

a boy dressed in cavalier fashion, his coldly logical thoughts reviewing the latest theories of magic he has recently absorbed from his beloved books....

Images, thoughts, faces......

And behind it all a sense of deep, bitter, inutterable sadness. Loss - loss and partings grown almost too many to number over the centuries. Yet the Sorting Hat remembered, and numbered, them all.

Gone, all gone.

"Welcome to my world," the Hat says without the slightest trace of sarcasm.

My mouth suddenly feels as dry as a desert.

"But now to your problems, Headmaster," the Hat's 'voice' is brisk. "How would you summarize them?"

"Should we go over everything, blow by blow?" I feel a sense of dread in my stomach. The last thing I want to do right now is re-live those moments yet again.

"Not necessary. Your memories are quite vivid. I just want you to state what you believe is the essence of your trouble."

"I," my mouth is definitely dry now, and sticky, "I do not understand..."

Do not understand who? Harry? Snape?

"I do not understand my own feelings."

"Excellent!" The Hat seems to chuckle. "It takes a very insightful person to reach that particular conclusion. Now, if it is any consolation to you let me assure you that no one understands their feelings, not really. In all my thousand years I've never met anyone who truly knows why they feel the way that they do."

That surprises me. True, I acknowledge that many people, like poor Severus, have simplistic views of emotion. But I would have thought that explanations were possible.

"Oh, explanations are possible all right," the Hat says, ignoring our agreement again, "but true understanding rarely is. In your case I take it you want to know why you do not feel guilty for hurting Severus as you have done? Or at least more guilty?"

"Yes."

"First of all, you do feel guilty at least somewhat or the question would not even arise." The Hat's tone is musing as if it is deep in thought about something. "Secondly ... have I ever shown you an actual Sorting?"

It's a rhetorical question of course. The Hat does not forget things.

"No, you have not."

"Hmmm. I used to show all the Headmasters as part of their introduction to the job. I found it didn't work well though. Maybe in this case though .... yes. Close your eyes and run through a basic Occlumency exercise, if you don't mind. This will be easier if I don't have to work around a lot of extraneous debris."

//Like me, for instance.//

"And for the last time," the Hat sounds quite exasperated, "would you QUIT that."

I do as the Hat has suggested, swiftly moving through one of the standard progressions for emptying one's mind. I wonder briefly if this will prevent the Hat from functioning, but let that query go with the rest of my thoughts. I am also curious as to what this has to do with my question. But given my own practices of giving people mysterious answers for their own good, I am scarcely in a position to protest.

"Now," the Hat's voice is perfectly clear - so much for Occlumency presenting a problem, "open your mind in this direction." I let my thoughts ride in the 'path' pointed by the Hat. I sense something there something ... a sound. "Very good, now concentrate on it."

I do and the sound becomes much more distinct. It is a stringed instrument, a guitar, giving off soft, muted tones as if someone is absently strumming.

"That," the Sorting Hat says, "is our new wizardling. Where shall we put him?"

A sound? How utterly fascinating.

"It actually isn't a sound. My own senses are quite unlike yours. But your mind translates it into a sound - with a little help from me." The Hat sounds quite amused. "I find that sound is very useful to me in communicating concepts with your minds. It is what gave me the idea for my Welcoming songs."

I can see how.

"Do you know where we should put him?" The Hat asks again.

"No," I admit, totally at sea with this most familiar and yet most novel of traditions.

"Neither do I. You see Sorting is not a process of analysis, a way of measuring people mathematically and comparing them to charts. I suppose you thought that is what I did."

"I suppose that I did, yes."

"As you yourself have observed, that is the transfigurations teacher in you coming out." The Hat sighed, "Not to mention the manipulative old codger."

"I do not like...." I begin to protest.

"I know you don't LIKE manipulating people. But you have been at it so long that you approach everyone, and every problem, as if it were just a matter of finding the right strings to pull or buttons to push." The Hat sounds very sad. "It is one of the great temptations of power - and most especially of wisdom. The irony is that it turns power into weakness and wisdom into foolishness."

I have had ample demonstration of that the last few terrible months.

"But the thing is - and this Albus is what you tend to forget - that people are not puppets or dolls or machines. They are balances of subtle and intense complexity. When you begin altering one element, others inevitably move and change as well. A transfigurationist approaches an object with the idea that form is different than essence. He thinks that each geometric aspect is to be shaped in a disciplined procedure that takes into account the whole - yes I have heard of the Principles of Synergy - but which ultimately exists as a separate entity. I know that with living things, this is not the case."

That raises many questions, most of them so potentially painful that I have no wish to broach them.

"So how do you Sort?" I ask, trying to forge ahead lightly.

"And now the man is trying to manipulate a Hat!" The laughter in my head is genuine and mocking and as cruel as any Tom Riddle ever uttered.

"Oh no," the Hat's laugh cuts off as if at a knife-edge, "do not compare me with young Mr. Riddle. I take no pleasure in pain Albus. But neither am I the slightest bit sentimental."

"However," the Hat moves on, "I will answer your question. In order to Sort we will need some standards of comparison. And the ones I use are those according to which the House's are supposedly modeled."

"The Founders," I say.

"Yes, the Founders. Who else? So, let us call them forth." The Hat's tone suddenly changes, becoming sonorous and forceful, like the voice of a medieval herald.

"HELGA." Suddenly there is the sound of trilling notes, as if from a flute. The notes are soft and flowing, each seeming to lie in perfect accord with the next, as if someone was trying to create a sound picture of a hill slope or a flowing stream.

"GODRIC." Horns of course. Horns playing a strong, challenging melody with bright harmonics - and a disturbingly dark undertone.

"ROWENA." A violin this time. It's voice is an incredibly complex theme filled with grace notes like question marks. Periodically one of the grace notes becomes a base for a riff of astonishing subtlety and development - a riff that collapses to become a new part of the theme and a foundation for yet more questioning notes.

"SALAZAR." A piano, which is not what I would have expected. The instrument plays an intricate song, but suddenly it swerves, turning on a single note into an entirely new melody. Then a seemingly innocent minor chord signals yet another twist. And so the song circles, or perhaps spirals, in dizzy patterns resembling the coils of snake.

"And now," the Hat continues, "where to put our little one? Let us hear what he sounds like." And with that I get a strong sense, almost a vision but not quite, of the Hat reaching forth and strumming. The instrument that is the new student gives off a brave, loud, shifting melody.

"What do you think?" the Hat inquires.

I concentrate. The notes and patterns seem tantalizingly familiar at points, but nowhere does it seem to quite match one of the Founders.

"Not to worry," the Hat continues, "we are scarcely done. Now let us transpose this wizardling." At that the melody suddenly shifts to a flute.

I relax, understanding now what we are to do. I compare the flute music to that which represented Helga and therefore Hufflepuff. "No." I am very definite. The sound has none of the serenity and confidence of Helga's chords.

"I agree," the Hat says. "Perhaps Ravenclaw?"

This is tougher. The music is certainly complex enough, but its grace notes seem too accidental, too derivative, not an integral enough part of the melody. I shake my head.

"Agreed. Now let us try Gryffindor."

This is a much better match. The vibrancy of the student certainly matches that of Godric as, I am surprised to hear, does the wizardling's dark undertone. Still, the song seems too shifting, too swirling and twisting.

"I am not sure." I admit.

"At this point neither am I. Slytherin." The song twists and shifts all right, but the strength of it seems somewhat out of place.

The Hat allows the tune to bounce back and forth between Godric's horns and Salazar's piano for a few moments. Finally he says, "It seems to me that Salazar is the better fit, what say you?"

"Agreed."

I hear, as if from a great distance, the Hat's voice shouting, "Slytherin!"

"Now," the Hat continues, "let's try another." The new sound is guitar again, more complex than the first, richer and more varied, but with a much heavier base line.

Hufflepuff is eliminated quickly. We dwell on Ravenclaw for a long moment, but eventually decide that, like the first, this melody does not possess Rowena's pattern. So we are back to Slytherin and Gryffindor. And once again we waver between.

"It is certainly complex enough for Slytherin," I say.

"Yes," the Hat answers, "but also strong and forthright. Let us listen a little more closely."

I bend my attention to the music. And the melody seems to resolve, to become simpler and stronger - even insistent.

"Definitely Gryffindor," I say at last.

"So at is." In the distance the name "Gryffindor!" echoes outward.

"So, what does that teach you?" the Hat asks.

"I suppose you are trying to tell me that humans are complex, no two alike, and their interactions are unique?" That seems the obvious lesson.

"Yes, among other things. Did you recognize the two wizardlings?"

"Should I have?" I ask. Suddenly I have a strong suspicion.

"Not really. But I will tell you that the first was Severus Snape, the second Harry Potter."

Severus and Harry! How remarkable! How ....

"How similar?" the Hat finishes. "Yes indeed. In some ways Harry reminds me more of Salazar than he does of Godric. In some ways Severus reminds me more of Gryffindor than he does of Slytherin. But I persist in thinking that I sorted them correctly - especially since Potter was so insistent."

So that was the clarification of the melody! It was Harry's insistence that he not be put in Slytherin!

"And the lesson here?" I ask?

"That the two of them are more alike than you might think. They are also more different than you might think."

"That is not very clear," I allow, "but I don't suppose I'm in a position to complain."

"You are not," the Hat sounds stern. "Besides, people are often confusing and unclear."

"And I must learn to accept this?"

"Better than you do now at any rate. You must also accept that people are often uncontrollable. It quite surprised me, frankly, when Potter insisted so strongly on not going into Slytherin. I was on the verge of Sorting him there when the melody clarified."

I nod. Learning to accept the chaotic nature of human action has always been hard for me. Perhaps that is why I am considered such a good leader - my focus is ever to maintain order in the maelstrom.

"If it is not really a melody," I ask out of sudden curiosity, "what is it?"

"Well," for the first time the Hat sounds hesitant, "the sense I use is most akin to the human sense of taste. I don't often mention it though. I find it upsets people."

I can see why. I wonder what the students' reactions would be to knowing the Hat was tasting them.

"Do you suppose I could..."

"No." The Hat is firm.

"I only want..."

"No," he says, "I will not give you a demonstration of what the tastes are like. I only did that once."

"What happened?"

"The poor man could not look at food for a month."

That certainly does not sound appealing. Suddenly I think of something else. "That must have been a slow version of the sortings."

"Oh no," the Hat says lightly, "that was an accurate representation in time as well as process."

"But," surely I'm not getting that old, "Harry's sorting took nowhere near that long!"

"Not to you," he says chuckling, "but what makes you think a hat perceives time the same way a human does?"

For the first time, I suddenly have a true appreciation for how different, how alien, the entity sitting on my head really is.

"Thank you," the Hat says lightly. "Now for the last thing."

"There's more?"

"Yes." He pauses then continues slowly. "One of my main rules is that I never show anyone their own sorting. I have found over the years that causes more problems than it solves. I am almost tempted to make an exception in your case."

"Why should you do that," I ask cautiously.

"Because you must learn not only to accept the complexity of Severus and Harry, but the complexity of yourself."

I am silent for a long moment.

"Do you know that feeling you have been having, of something awakening within you, a monster?" the Hat asks.

"Yes," I say slowly.

"That, Headmaster, is love."

I am stunned. "How can it be?"

"It can be," the Hat says, his tone sad, "because you have little understanding of love, despite all your talk to Harry. Your little Riddle voice is right about that."

I take in a deep breath and open my mouth to speak, but can think of nothing to say.

"You are like the wizards in the Department of Mysteries Albus. Deep in your heart you think love is a force, an energy, something to be put in a room and measured and studied." The Hat sighs. "It is not. It is a living thing. A thing with wants and needs and desires. It is a thing that moves, a thing that grows, a thing that fights."

"And how does this effect Harry, Severus, and myself?"

"Because your relationship with them is intimately tied up with the question of love. Of who you love, and how you love them. You are afraid to face those questions, Albus. You once thought of Harry as having a wall around his heart. You have thought that Severus does not understand true emotion. Much the same could be said about you."

"Why?" I am not sure whether the cry comes from terror, or anger, or fear.

"Because you have spent so long wearing masks you have forgotten your true face. Because you have suppressed your heart so long you don't recognize its voice. That is why your love manifests as a monster. It is the only way it can tear its way out of the prison you've built for it." The Hat suddenly sounds old, oh so very, very old.

"And what must I do?" I ask softly, already suspecting I know the answer.

"You must tear down the walls around your heart. Only when your own love is free can you attend to others. Once you have faced your love and understood it, you can help Harry to face and understand his. It will be very hard. He is terribly, terribly wounded Albus, and when his love flowers, so will his pain. But it must be. He must let the pain out for the love to grow. As it is he is filled with love, but it is buried and choked by fear and grief and agony. You must cut away those bonds, no matter how much it hurts. Only then can Harry ever hope to find the happiness that you want for him so badly."

"And Severus?" I ask softly, a lump in my throat.

"Most of the love in Severus was poisoned long ago," the voice is so infinitely sad it might well be announcing the death of an entire cosmos, which I suppose it is, "but there are roots remaining. It is possible that something might flower there again. But once again he must be made to understand his love, and yours. And that will be painful as well, for your love will never be what he wants it to be."

I want to cry badly. I had sensed as much. But I had not wanted to admit it to myself.

"So, how do I do this?" I ask softly.

"There I can be of little help," he says. "In the end I am, after all, not human. I can show you the goal. For help with the path you must turn to your own kind."

I try to speak, but my breath hitches and I sit quietly.

"And now Albus," the Hat's voice is suddenly bright after a few moments of silence, "if you don't mind, I need to get back to my Welcoming Song!"

"Yes, old friend," I say softly, "you do." I rise and remove the Hat, placing him back in his accustomed place on the shelf, "And this time we will do well to listen to you."

After my conversation with the Sorting Hat I feel empty and drained. I sit behind my desk and try not to think of anything in particular. Fawkes, who is now evidently almost fully recovered, sits on my knee and sings softly.

Love. I have prattled about love constantly. And now a Hat tells me I don't know what I'm talking about.

Yes, but it IS a thousand year old talking hat.

RIIIIIIIIIIIIIINGGGGGGGG!

The sound of a muffled bell comes from the upper drawer of my desk. Fawkes squawks in surprise and I automatically draw my wand.

RIIIIIIIIIIIIIINGGGGGGGG!

It is actually a combination of a ring and a buzz.

RIIIIIIIIIIIIIINGGGGGGGG!

The door behind my desk opens and Iris pokes her head out.

RIIIIIIIIIIIIIINGGGGGGGG!

"Will Master Albus be answering that?" She asks with a smile.

What in the world?

RIIIIIIIIIIIIIINGGGGGGGG!

I slowly open the drawer.

RIIIIIIIIIIIIIINGGGGGGGG!

Sitting inside is a small silvery object with a green blinking light. Obviously one of Iris' specially enchanted muggle contraptions.

RIIIIIIIIIIIIIINGGGGGGGG!

I pick it up slowly. A small door falls open revealing a keypad.

RIIIIIIIIIIIIIINGGGGGGGG!

It's a muggle telephone.

"Pressing the 'answer' key Master Albus," Iris says.

RIIIIIIIIIIIIIINGGGGGGGG!

I press the key and hold the phone to my ear.

"HELLO ALBUS! IT'S PROFESSOR MCGONAGALL!"

I wince as Minerva bellows in my ear. In the distance I hear a voice saying something to her.

"Oh, is this all right Albus?" she says in a more normal, although still unnecessarily loud, tone.

"Yes, Minerva, that's fine." I switch the phone to my left ear and try to massage the ringing out of my right.

"Good, I wasn't sure this would work." Minerva sounds absurdly pleased with herself.

"Yes. Why are you using a .... a....."

"Is being called a mobile phone, Master Albus," Iris interjects.

"A mobile phone?" I finish.

"Iris gave it to me this morning along with Harry's Firebolt. She told me to dial this number after I had talked to Harry."

"Very well. Err, could you wait a minute?" I remove the phone from my ear and look at Iris questioningly.

"Iris is thinking that since Master Albus is so worried about Harry Potter, this might be a good idea. Master Albus will keep one phone and Harry Potter will keep the other. That way they can talk without having to use owls."

"Without using owls?" I repeat, just a little stunned.

"Yes. Iris is thinking that Master Albus is all the time fretting when waiting for owls to get back, and is worrying the Nasty Tom Riddle will catch them. Well muggle way is faster, and Iris is betting that no one working for Nasty Tom is knowing how to tap phones."

Now that I think of it, I would tend to agree.

"So I will have one phone," I say slowly.

"And Harry Potter will have the other. If Master Albus is wanting to talk with Harry, he is just dialing. If Harry is needing Master Albus, he is dialing too. Master Albus will have to be keeping his charged, but Iris has fixed up way to do that using bits and pieces from pretty things Harry Potter broke."

I can see the advantages. No more having to worry if the Dursleys will let owl messages through. And Hermione Granger can check up on Harry from her parents' home without having to deal with his hateful guardians.

"Iris was wanting to get phones for Professor Remus and Harry Potter's Wheezey as well, but I am only having the two." She shrugs her shoulders. "Can be getting more from muggles if we are wanting them."

Yes, an excellent suggestion. But for the moment it is just as well that we have the two. If such a thing fell into Arthur Weasley's hands we wouldn't be able to pry him away for Order business.

"Let me talk to Harry, Minerva," I say putting the phone back to my ear.

"Just a minute Albus." In the background I hear the sound of a minor argument.

"Hello?' The voice is definitely Harry's, but it sounds so tired that my heart drops to the floor.

"Yes Harry, it's Albus Dumbledore."

"Hello Professor." His voice is flat and emotionless, as if he is reading from a parchment.

"How are you Harry?"

"OK." I hear another minor squabble in the background. Evidently Minerva took exception to that. "Not sleeping well." Harry says finally.

In the background I hear Minerva's voice saying something that ends with "at all!"

"Did you sleep at all last night Harry?" I ask softly.

"No Professor." He might have been reciting answers from a potions table.

"Would you like us to send you some Dreamless Sleep potion?"

"No Professor. I'm OK." That seems a patent lie.

"Are the Dursleys treating you well?"

"All right." I can almost see the shrug. All right means they haven't locked him in yet.

"Do you....do you want to talk about Sirius Harry? With me or Professor McGonagall?"

"No Professor. I'm OK." Is he even listening to me?

"Would you like Remus to come over? Or anyone?" Please say there's someone Harry.

"No. I...." he trails off. I hear a snuffling sound at the other end of the line. He wants to cry, but won't let it happen.

I think my heart will burst from the aching.

"Is there somebody Harry?" I press.

"I...no, it's OK."

"NO Harry. Is there somebody?" I find myself gripping the phone tightly and I deliberately loosen my grip. I don't know how fragile these things are.

"I don't want to bother anybody," he says softly.

I close my eyes as I hear a burst of remonstration from Minerva on the other end.

"You aren't bothering anybody Harry," I say as evenly as I can, "we are your friends."

"And you can't let The Boy Who Lived go off the deep end, can you?" Suddenly his voice is filled with bitterness. I take a sharp breath.

Another burst from Minerva, this time I can almost feel heat over the phone.

"No," I say, "we can't let Harry be in pain."

//Then where were you while he was in the closet?//

Shut up Tom! I can't deal with you now!

"Who do you want to see Harry?" I ask again. "It isn't any trouble."

"I...." more snuffles. "If maybe I could talk with..." his voice is trailing off.

"Yes Harry?" I've had battles with vampires that went easier than this.

Mumbled sound at the other end.

"Yes Harry?" I raise my voice slightly and try very hard not to snap.

"Mrs. Weasley." He says softly.

Molly, of course. The closest thing to a mother he has.

I hear soft approving sounds coming from Minerva at the other end.

"Of course Harry. We will owl Molly right away and have her come as soon as she can."

"Tell her not to take any special trouble." He says it in a tone that makes it clear he does not regard himself as worth any special trouble.

"It won't be any trouble for her Harry." And I am sure it won't. Molly loves him as one of her own.

"Now, is there anything else?" Fool question but I want to keep him on the line a little longer.

"No."

"We will have you out of there very soon Harry."

"You said that last summer." The bitterness is thick again.

What can I say? He is right.

"I promise Harry." I wait for a reply.

None comes.

"Keep the phone with you at all times Harry."

"OK." His voice is flat and soft.

"I mean it Harry. If we try to dial and you don't answer, someone will come over."

"OK."

I feel like shaking him, hugging him, and crying over him all at the same time.

"Tell Minerva I'll be waiting for her. She can floo directly to my office."

"All right. Goodbye Professor."

"Goodbye Harry."

I sit down, carefully placing the phone in my pocket and my head in my hands. I would gladly face Severus three times rather than go through that again.

//Admit it, you are disappointed he wanted to talk to Molly and not to you.//

I'm too tired to play right now Tom.

//Don't worry, he'll come to you soon enough. The big black puppy is gone, the werewolf is on the edge of his own breakdown, and Arthur already has six sons. Soon enough your precious Harry will come crawling to you wanting to be patted on the head.//

I don't want him to be hurt.

//Too late.//

A roar announces Minerva's arrival. She comes over to my desk, standing ramrod straight, marching like a soldier. Things must have been even harder on that end.

"He isn't doing well Albus. He hasn't slept." Her lips press together in a tight, thin line.

"I know. Maybe Molly can help." I motion for her to sit.

"I hope so. I was encouraged when he asked for her." She shakes her head. "But he is just staring into space Albus. I know he is lost in his mind somewhere."

Yes. And I know where. In the room with the veil. Or in this office, when I told him he would kill or be killed.

"What about the Dursleys?" I almost dread to ask.

"Ignoring him," she says bitterly.

"Well, that may be an improvement."

"Albus..."

"I know," I raise my hand to stop her, "we need to get him out. First things first. Let's get in touch with Molly. Iris..."

"Iris is already writing the note, Master Albus." She finishes with a flourish and hands it to me for a signature.

"Wonderful!" I sign and hand it back. "Please see that this gets owled at once."

"Iris is going, Master Albus." She bows to Minerva and Fawkes and hurries away at top House Elf speed.

"Let's see," I say softly, pulling out some parchment and scrawling some hasty calculations. "I had planned to have him out by the middle of the month. That would be cutting it close for the requirements of the magic that guards him, but maybe..." It is a tricky business. The ancient magic with which we are dealing is chaotic and little understood.

After all, it is based on love.

Finally I throw the quill down with a hiss. Minerva jumps a little and stares at me in surprise.

"I'm sorry," I say, "I just hate taking chances with Harry like this."

"I know Albus," she says quietly, "but we must have him out of there!"

"I agree." I take one last look at the scrawled signs. "Nine days. That is the absolute least he can live there without definitely disrupting the magic." I sigh. "And I am not at all sure about that."

After all, the Hat had said I have little understanding of love.

"We must have him out!" Minerva's eyes are shining.

"Yes." I sigh again. "We will have him out on the evening of Monday, 8 July."

"Good," Minerva says, "and if Molly can help, things might be well."

Oh, they won't be well. But they might not be disastrous.

"In the meantime, I will get in touch with Miss Granger," Minerva continues. "She can check in on him using that muggle device while you are at Beauxbatons."

"Yes," I say, "and have somebody from the Order stop by every third day regardless. As a matter of fact pull Remus off whatever he is doing and make Harry his special responsibility. This situation requires a close watch."

Minerva nods. "I've been expecting Remus to request something of the sort, anyway. Oh, I asked Harry about a memorial service for Sirius, he seemed to perk up a little at that."

"Good, good. What say we plan on doing it the morning of the fourteenth?"

"I wish," Minerva looks sour, "I wish that the Ministry wasn't being so stubborn about Sirius'conviction. It would help Harry if we could have a public ceremony!"

"I know," I say, "but Fudge is being petty and spiteful. He would still strike back at Harry if he could."

"We will make sure THAT doesn't happen!" Minerva swears sternly.

I rub my forehead. If there was any way I could put off the trip to Beauxbatons I would. But things are moving too fast.

There is a tapping at the window.

Minerva and I look at one another in surprise. There is no way that could be a communication from Molly already. We both rise and hurry to the window. When we see the messenger perched on the sill, Minerva lets out a gasp.

"Is that...."

"It is." I say, suddenly feeling a surge of hope. I open the window and accept the package offered by the creature. It flies away, Minerva standing at the window and watching it until it vanishes.

I hurry to my desk and open the box. Inside is one object and a letter in an elaborate envelope. I tear it open and scan it rapidly.

"Are they in agreement, Albus?" Minerva asks anxiously.

"As much in agreement as we can hope for at this point!"

We look at each other and smile.

"I never thought they would do it." Minerva shakes her head.

"They will surprise you." I gather up the package and place it carefully to one side. I will need it in the morning.

We look at each other, and for the first time in a long while, we both utter genuine, heartfelt laughs.