Time is Not a One-Way Stream

Harry Potter slouched at the desk in his bedroom doodling aimlessly on a bit of parchment. He had loads of homework left over from Hogwarts, especially a particularly nasty Potions essay, but somehow he didn't feel up to doing any of it. In fact, most of the time that summer he really didn't feel like doing anything at all--except doodle and remember.

The worst part of remembering, Harry supposed, was the guilt. Yes, he had felt guilty one year ago when Cedric Diggory had died for being with Harry in the wrong place at the wrong time, but that was nothing to the consuming remorse that came with the memory of Sirius' death, caused by Harry's own reckless stupidity. Last year Harry had forced himself not to think too much on Cedric, but now he felt he deserved the guilt and shame that came so easily with thought.

Greatest of justices: he hadn't really been able to get to know his father's best friend because he accidentally killed--no, caused his death. And now he was stuck living with the greatest morons in the

history of the world--the Dursleys. Ever since Harry left Hogwarts two weeks ago he had remained locked up in his room, leaving only to go to meals and the bathroom. Meals were quickly becoming uncomfortable, as even the ever-insensitive Dursleys became more and more aware that there was something very wrong with this completely passive Harry picking listlessly at his food. Sometimes Harry felt completely empty in his pain--so hollow he wondered if he had been kissed by a dementor.

**********

Aunt Petunia confronted Uncle Vernon some weeks into vacation, worried about Harry.

"All he does is eat and sleep," growled Uncle Vernon angrily. "That boy better learn his place in this house; he's not to become completely spoiled by us. He'll have to do chores, Petunia; that's the best thing for all of us."

"But Vernon, dear, the boy is not right in the head," Aunt Petunia whined, "what if he hurts our little Duddykins?" Uncle Vernon nodded wisely and grunted in assent.

"Yes, Petunia, you're right. We must keep it locked away."

"But dear, what about what those--those people said at the tram station?" she squeaked in fright.

"Ah, my dear, that's where I'm one step ahead of that crowd. They won't be able to tell that Harry's not still sending them letters. I'll make sure of that."

"But how, Vernon?"

"A little something called forgery dear."

And Uncle Vernon was as bad as his word. Harry woke up the next morning to the whirring of a drill. He wandered downstairs for the first time outside of meals to see what was going on. As Harry walked down the stairs, he could feel the steps vibrating slightly. Uncle Vernon had installed six different padlocks into the cupboard under the stairs, and was now drilling holes into the wall next to the door. Harry was extremely confused.

"What now," said Harry to Uncle Vernon, "do Dudley's toys need to breathe these days?" Uncle Vernon smirked evilly.

"No, but you do." With that he heaved a still confused Harry into the cupboard, locked the door shut, secured the deadbolts, and continued drilling holes into the wall. "You should be grateful you're living with decent people, boy. No one else would give you air in there."

"Great. Thanks a lot Uncle Fatface," Harry muttered angrily. He tugged on the light switch and sat on the mattress with his head curving against the low ceiling.

About an hour later Aunt Petunia succeeded in forging a letter in Harry's handwriting using his old essays. She was very proud of herself for writing what was, in her opinion, a letter very characteristic of Harry's type:

Yo Ron,

Wazzup man? I'm chillin' down here with my really generous family. Ther normal humans not like us. You're sister is relly hot on a broomstick man. I made a pass at her on the train, and dude! Man, I wanted to watch television today, but my man Dudley was waching it, and I'm not worthie to lick his shoos. So whatever. I maide sum Potions today. For homework. Did that busy-haired freak give you the ansers to the homeworks?

Well, give me all your brains so I can be smart in school and broomsticks.

--Harry

(A/N: Don't ask. I don't know where that came from)

Yes, she thought, that was Harry's caliber of morality, coherency and thought (or lack thereof).

Meanwhile, Harry reached into his back pocket, remembering the mirror he had left there. He had taken to keeping it with him, as it was the last thing Sirius ever gave him. His first week of vacation was spent fixing the mirror until there only remained a deep crack down the middle. At the end of the Hogwarts term Harry had tried calling out to Sirius with the mirror, but he had received no reply. Maybe he thought, if I yell loudly enough someone will answer. But I have to wait until the Dursleys leave to call out loudly or else Uncle Vernon will throw a tissy fit.

**********

A few uneventful days passed. Much to Harry's annoyance, there always seemed to be someone in Number Four at all times. He had tried whispering or talking quietly into the mirror, but either its charms had broken when Harry stupidly flung it into his trunk or nobody was able to hear him on the other end.

Aunt Petunia had been successful in getting Hedwig to send the letter she had composed. After a few indignant screeches, the great owl saw that the letter was, indeed, in Harry's handwriting and supposed that sending it wouldn't cause much harm. She was, of course, very wrong.

A couple hundred miles towards the west there lay a small but very abnormal house. Chickens pecked the thick green weeds in the unfenced front yard around a crooked wooden sign reading "The Burrow." Under the cover of large oak and elm trees swaying gently in the wind, a wooden tool-shed filled with broken bits of machines and bicycle tires stood beside a lopsided, bright yellow limestone house that looked like it had survived more a few earthquakes and was ready to retire. A large snowy owl fluttered through the kitchen door and landed on the table.

Mrs. Weasley took one look at the letter attached and yelled up the staircase, "Ronald Weasley, for the last time, wake up!! You've got a letter." A tall red-haired figure in bright orange pajamas slumped down the stairs slowly.

"Gosh, Mum, it's only ten o'clock. We're on vacation now."

"Really, Ron, it's a wonder your arm on the clock doesn't stay at 'Mortal Peril.' You're bound to sleep yourself to death one of these days."

"Well, where's Ginny then? She doesn't seem to be down here either," Ron replied, annoyed.

"Your sister is in the backyard. She has been awake since seven o'clock!" Mrs. Weasley growled, "Now go read your letter! It's the first one from Harry!" With one last irritated grimace towards his mother's face, Ron opened up the letter Hedwig left on the table. At first his face registered confusion, then astonishment, then the famous Weasley Anger TM. He ran towards the swings in the backyard where Ginny was sitting, grumbling incoherently, his face turning redder and redder, almost to the color of his hair.

"GINNY!!!!" he yelled, "WHAT THE HELL WERE YOU DOING MAKING OUT WITH HARRY *censored* POTTER?!" as thoroughly confused.

"Ron, what are you talking about? I never came close to--"

"Oh yeah?! Well explain this," he yelled, throwing the letter at her. "Would Harry be gloating about making a pass at you if you had beaten the *censored* out of him for trying?"

Ginny read through the letter then started chuckling at the look on Ron's face.

"Ron, look at this letter. Harry must've gotten extremely drunk to write something like this. I mean, how else would you explain him asking for your brain. All sober people know you don't have one, as

you just proved this morning."

Ron looked at the letter again. Sure enough, that didn't look like anything Harry would write. He joined Ginny in her chuckling. "Sorry, Gin. I guess I overreacted or something."

"That okay," said Ginny with a long-suffering sigh, "we're used to you." But she wondered if this meant Harry liked her--if he was writing about her when drunk maybe he had feelings deep down inside. Nah, she thought, I'm over him. But she couldn't help wondering.

**********

Harry was curled up tightly on the floor of the small cupboard with his ear to the door, trying not to breathe. He had overheard Uncle Vernon telling Dudley to get into his best suit (which was about the size of a large fish-net) after lunch, and was hoping dearly that they were all going out. He heard three pairs of footsteps clomping down the stairs and into the hallway. One pair stopped uncertainly, and he heard his aunt's abrasive voice.

"Vernon, dear, you don't suppose he'll do anything--strange while we're out, do you?" she asked, her voice wavering slightly.

"Nonsense, Petunia, there's nothing to worry about. It's stuck behind six padlocks," Uncle Vernon boomed proudly.

"Well, I suppose you're right dear."

"Of course I am." And with that, the front door slammed shut.

I'm free, Harry thought. Well, free as anyone locked securely in a m smaller than a broom-closet can be. He was very hungry and more than a little depressed. Sure, I'm safe from Voldemort, but at this

rate Uncle Vernon will do me in before September comes around. He turned towards the mirror again, this time yelling as loud as he could through it. "HELLO?! IS ANYBODY THERE?" After a few minutes, just as he was about to give up, the surface of the mirror seemed to shimmer slightly, and Harry saw a beaked face hovering above the surface of the glass. "Buckbeak?" Harry gasped, astonished that he got through.

"Where is everyone, Buckbeak?" Don't blink, he thought desperately. The last thing he needed was to have Buckbeak slash his beak through the mirror. Resolutely, the large animal turned around. "Good, boy, Buckbeak! Please get someone!" Harry said, excited. A large feathery rump appeared on the edge of the mirror and became larger and larger. "No! Get off the damn mirror! God!!" Harry yelled. He heard footsteps. Oh, God. The Dursleys aren't back yet, are they? He thought, scared.

"What's all this noise up here," he heard someone mumble through the rustling of feathers, "are you sitting on Kreacher again, Buckbeak?"

With a burst of euphoria, Harry realized the voice was coming through the mirror. "SOMEBODY GET ME OUT OF HERE!" he shouted. With a big grunt, whoever it was pulled Buckbeak off the mirror, and a pair of twinkling blue eyes in an old wrinkled face appeared over the mirror.

"Professor Dumbledore!" Harry exclaimed.

Dumbledore paled. "Harry? Where in the world are you?"

"Well I'm at home, of course! Where else would I be?" Harry asked. He went on quickly, "Boy, I can't tell you how glad I am to see you!"

"Um, Harry, would you mind telling me just what's going on? I think my old age is finally catching up to me."

Harry smiled. The idea of Dumbledore ever going senile was silly, even though he could certainly be extremely kooky at times. "Well, this is a magic mirror, see? The Marauders used to use these for communication when they were out on pranks. Sirius gave it to me." At the mention of Sirius' name, both went quiet for a short while. <>

"Alas, Harry, though I understand now how we are communicating, I am still at a loss. Where are you?"

Harry gave a wry chuckle, "Well, Professor, I'm locked in my old bedroom again."

"Looks more like a small closet to me," said Dumbledore, still somewhat confused.

"Well, close enough, really." He switched topics quickly, not wanting to elaborate anymore. "Is there any possibility of getting any food? Only I haven't eaten for a few days, and I'm starting to get a bit peckish."

"Haven't eaten..." Dumbledore repeated, dumbfounded. "Hold on, a bit Harry. I'm going to get some food and Apparate over there myself."

"Thank you Professor! I'll see you soon," Harry replied. As the image of an angry-looking Dumbledore faded from the mirror, Harry grinned. It looked like he wouldn't be stuck at Number Four much longer.

**********

Number 12 Grimmauld Place was, by all definitions of the word, a mansion. Long twisting staircases turned between dark, maize-like corridors. It was not unlike an extremely small version of Hogwarts, and so it was not entirely strange that Albus Dumbledore soon became utterly lost somewhere between the bathroom on the fourth floor and the largely embellished display case of magically enhanced torturing devices. Though he was both a magical and logical genius, Albus had no sense of direction and was not a patient man, particularly when his pet students were locked up in dusty, bug-infested boxes without food. So he used his logical genius and did the reasonable thing to find his way out.

Nymphadora Tonks--or just plain Tonks for the non-masochistic--was currently making the most heavenly double-layered chocolate cake in history. Only a true Culinary Master could take a simple dessert and transform it into complete perfection. It required precise measuring, carefully balanced amounts of flour, butter, sugar and hand-ground cocoa. One falter and the cake would be ruined. One misstep and--

"SOMEBODY GET ME THE HELL OUT OF HERE!!!!"

Tonks leaped in the air, upturning the bag of flour she was sifting which knocked down the sugar bowl, which, in turn, upturned a spoon full of cinnamon before smashing on the stone floor. The spoon flew and connected in mid-air with the flour sifter that had been thrust from her right hand halfway through her leap. The sifter's trajectory was changed just enough to fly into the open Potions cabinet, causing a ripe vat of pureed rat spleens to spill into the nearly finished, once-perfect cake batter. Tonks screeched in rage.

Albus smiled. He had achieved more than he expected. Now all he had to do was follow the expletives coming in a loud, constant stream from God-knows-where. After a few minutes of walking, after which the expletives showed no sign of slowing down, he finally found his way into the kitchens. He opened the door to the entrance, and spotted a rather large and sinister-looking butcher knife being hurled at his head. He dodged to the side, in just enough time for it to pin his gray beard to the door.

"And a good evening to you too, Tonks. But next time please warn me before you attempt to give me a haircut. I'm afraid my reflexes are not what they used to be, and you may make Voldemort a very happy man next time you try."

Tonks had the presence of mind to blush. "Oh, sorry Professor. Some moron startled me earlier by screaming while I was making a cake, and it ruined."

"Hmmm... I wonder who that might have been? Probably Remus," said Albus, his left eye twitching. He spotted the cake batter. "Is this it then?" he asked, swiping a finger through the surface and bringing it up into his mouth. "Oh, this is absolutely heavenly Tonks! Congratulations; you've rediscovered the wonders of the Ratmandoo Cake Recipe!!" Tonks turned very green.

"Professor, there's pureed rat spleens in there."

"Ah, yes. That's the secret ingredient, see? Gives it a nice bite."

"Well, why's it called Ratmandoo?"

Albus pondered for a bit. "Well, you've probably guessed the 'rat' part of it. I suspect the 'mandoo' has something to do with what happens after the cake is consumed." He allowed himself a little smile. "And speaking of consumption, I need food. Lots and lots of food."

"Albus, we've just had lunch!"

"Oh, but Tonks, it isn't for myself. It's for a fugitive friend of mine who needs some help, so it has to be extremely nutritional."

After a little bickering with Tonks, and much foraging in the magical cooler, Dumbledore was finally on his way to Number Four, Privet Drive holding two loafs of bread, jacket potatoes, fruit, and a large sack of sherbet lemons.

**********

Harry was sick of waiting. He had expected Dumbledore to arrive in five minutes or so. His stomach had been waiting patiently for some food for the last half hour, and it wasn't going to wait much longer. Harry's belly was now grumbling nearly as loud as Dudley's had been the previous summer when he had been on his celery stick diet. Just as Harry began to become extremely alarmed at the noises coming from his abdomen, he realized, with initial relief, that it was just the car that pulled in at number four making the huge grumblings. Then he realized that the Dursleys were home. They were home and Dumbledore hadn't come yet. He was in deep trouble.