Time to Rewrite

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Time To Rewrite

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Chapter 2: The Mygrator

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Ron groaned over his breakfast for the third time. The morning meal in the Great Hall was drawing to a close and he was dreading the impending Potions lesson.

"I can't believe this essay for Snape!" he moaned dejectedly, looking at his crumpled piece of parchment that was propped against the toast rack. He had deliberately made his writing larger and used double-spacing in order to fill up the sheet, but was still a good five inches away from finishing. He had precisely twenty minutes before the start of the lesson and was definitely not looking forward to facing Snape.

"I know!" agreed Hermione, who had settled down next to him with her own breakfast. She reached for the water jug and poured herself a glass. "I mean, how are we supposed to squeeze it all into three feet? There's at least five feet's worth of information on Devil's Snare alone before you even get to its interactions with - "

She stopped abruptly at the sight of Ron's incredulous expression. Her exclamations were always lost on him. She opened her mouth to retort but was stopped short by the flutter of wings overhead, signalling the arrival of the post. Owls of all different breeds and colours swooped through the Great Hall, diving towards their respective owners and dropping packages and bundles of different shapes and sizes onto the tables. Thankfully there were no Howlers amongst the deliveries that fluttered down towards their various recipients.

A large school owl landed in front of Hermione and tapped its beak against her fingers impatiently. "What have you got for me?" Hermione cooed, patting her owl on its feathery head. The bird deposited its cargo and eagerly nipped at the handful of treats the young witch offered. When the last morsel was gone, the snowy bird spread its wings and glided away gracefully. Hermione eagerly unfurled the copy of The Daily Prophet that it had brought and scanned the front page. Her eyes bulged as she read the bold headline.

MALFOY ESCAPES AZKABAN!

The Daily Prophet, for once, didn't mince its words.

The cover picture displayed a tall, stony-faced man with long blonde hair being held by two guards, one on either side. His pale complexion and sunken cheeks were evident even in the black and white picture and every so often he snarled angrily at the camera, his thin eyebrows knotting together.

Hermione's hand flew to her mouth and she shoved the paper under Ron's nose. "Look at this!" Ron peered at the print, which was mostly obscured by the large slice of pie that he was holding, and only caught the smaller subheading at the bottom of the page.

"Ollivander's Owl Wins Best In Show...?" Ron raised his eyebrows in confusion, wondering what the correct response should be to this piece of information. He gave Hermione an odd look. "Err...."

Hermione exhaled impatiently. "Not that! This." She pointed to the headline.

Ron gulped and his eyes widened. "Oh no...." He shivered as he read the article.

The security of Azkaban Prison has once again been thrown

into question with the escape of Lucius Malfoy, recently

convicted supporter of He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named, just

two days ago. Whilst every effort is being made to locate

his whereabouts, reports suggest that he has fled the....

It was obvious from the excited rustle around the Great Hall that the other students had read the same front page. Hermione and Ron reflexively glanced towards the Slytherin table but Malfoy was nowhere to be seen. "Typical," Ron grumbled. They next scanned the teachers' table and sought out Professor Snape. However, his carefully controlled exterior betrayed nothing, and his gaze lazily flicked over his breakfast in his usual disinterested manner.

"Look at him," Ron whispered to Hermione, his lip curling. "I bet he can hardly contain his delight. He's probably planning a celebration party with the rest of his Death Eater friends - "

"Stop it!" Hermione snapped. "He's on our side." But her voice shook a little.

Ron grunted disbelievingly but let it drop. Harry had only just started to get back to his usual self and was still in the hospital wing. The last thing he needed was for his two best friends to be at each other's throats. He returned to his food and started a different topic of conversation. When he didn't receive any reply he looked up, only to see Hermione still staring at the head table, a disconcerted look on her face.

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After the morning's meal, as the students dispersed to their various lessons, Dumbledore retired to his office. He had been doing this more and more often in the past few weeks. The wizard sat in the dimly lit room before his desk, his eyes closed, deep in thought, and racked his brains for the hundredth time. There has to be a way....

He absently fingered the sleeve of his deep green robe, and as he traced the vine-leaf pattern that ran through the embroidery he felt a tear form in the corner of his eye. He dejectedly clasped his hands and rested his elbows tiredly upon the knotted surface of the desk. He held his head in his hands and sighed. Never had he felt so utterly hopeless.

A low knock at the door caused him to raise his head and he spoke softly.

"Come in, Minerva."

The door opened to reveal the Transfiguration Mistress and she approached the Headmaster, her dark robes swishing slightly as she walked. After a few moments, in which the Mistress silently regarded the tired face of the Headmaster, she spoke. "You left the Hall quickly - I thought perhaps there had been a change...?" she questioned hopefully.

Dumbledore shook his head sadly. "No change." His voice was barely audible.

"Albus," McGonagall started, sitting down before the Headmaster. A worried look was etched on her face. They all seemed to be wearing that same look these days. "Is there no other way...?"

Albus gazed at the concerned witch and wished with all his heart that he could give her another answer. But he shook his head dejectedly. "I have been asking myself that same question for the past four weeks, Minerva...." His voice trailed off sadly and Professor McGonagall thought for a moment that he might cry. After several minutes Dumbledore cleared his throat softly. "The draught that Poppy has been giving Harry will only sustain his strength for a little while longer, but won't make any real difference in the long term. It is not curing him - only masking his symptoms." He exhaled heavily. "And it won't be long before the detrimental effects of the potion begin to override the benefits." His eyebrows knitted together slightly and his voice lowered. "I had hoped to put it off for a little longer, Minerva, but there is nothing to be done."

The witch felt a small lump form in her throat.

Dumbledore rubbed his eyes. "I must speak with him today."

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The mid-afternoon sun teased the sleeping boy's eyelids and bathed the room in a warm, autumnal glow. Harry opened his tired eyes and tried to raise a hand to rub them, but his arms felt incredibly heavy. In fact, his whole body was feeling rather unresponsive. The dark-haired boy groaned and frowned a little, feeling a little bewildered by the uncharacteristic hardness of the bed.

He had been here for nearly a week, but still he woke up with barely any recollection

of having arrived. This always happened. Then after ten minutes of waiting for his head to clear and for mind to stop spinning, he would slowly take stock of his surroundings and realise where he was.

Oh, right. The hospital wing.

If only Madam Pomfrey would give him more of that potion.... That always made him feel much better. But if he had been more alert, he would have realised that despite the periods of relief provided by the restorative draught, his actual condition wasn't improving. If anything, he was getting worse. But he hadn't noticed - for when the effects of the potion wore off he spent most of the time in the depths of sleep.

Madam Pomfrey had coincided Harry's visiting times with the times when his restorative potion was due, to enable him to converse with his friends and make the most of it. The effect of the potion was like a light switch. It would turn Harry from a drowsy, barely rousable patient into his usual bright self, and he had enjoyed having Remus, Hermione, Ron and his other classmates pop by for their daily visits. However, it was becoming more apparent to Madam Pomfrey that his periods of alertness were becoming shorter, and the amount of potion required to produce the desired affect was increasing.

Harry exhaled and closed his eyes once more, feeling a sudden wave of tiredness wash over him.

"Good afternoon, Potter."

The soft greeting caused him to open his eyes and he was dimly aware of a figure standing beside his bed.

Harry opened his eyes and blinked at the visitor, taking a few moments to recognise the Transfiguration Mistress. "P-Professor," he yawned, and was suddenly alarmed that he was actually yawning at his head of house.

But the witch didn't seem to mind. In fact, she lowered herself to perch on the edge of the bed.

"How are you feeling?"

Harry cleared his throat. "Oh - alright," he replied. "Just a little - a little tired...." He yawned again.

"And is the potion that Madam Pomfrey has been giving you helping?"

"Oh - yes, it's great. I feel fine when I have it." At this Harry frowned a little, suddenly realising that the positive effects of the Potion were not lasting as long as they had done when he had first been admitted to the hospital wing.

Professor McGonagall seemed to sense this. "But in between doses you're still feeling the same tiredness and lack of energy?" Her voice was soft.

Harry looked at her and nodded slowly, a sudden feeling of uneasiness creeping over him. There was something they weren't telling him.... He tried to sit up a little but felt his head lurch and rested it back down on the pillow. "Professor - " he started, wanting to ask more questions.

"The Headmaster will be along to see you shortly," she interrupted, rising from the bed. "He has a few things that he wishes to discuss with you." She looked at him for a few moments, but Harry couldn't quite read her expression.

"What about?" He blinked heavily as a wave of tiredness washed over him.

But Professor McGonagall didn't answer. She smiled a little sadly and Harry thought he saw her eyes glisten a little more than usual.

"You look like you need some rest," she said softly. She raised her hand to touch his shoulder - ever so lightly, as if he were fragile and might break.

Harry thought he saw a flicker of despair cross her features, but within a second it was gone. She abruptly dropped her hand and stepped away from the bedside. And with a swish of her robes she turned to leave, wiping her eyes a little as she strode away.

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Later on that same day, the early evening sun started its descent, throwing out warm pinks and oranges that bled across the sky before melting into the horizon. The fading light bathed the hospital wing in a comforting glow and illuminated the purple-robed figure that had just appeared at Harry's bedside.

"Hello there, Harry."

The dark-haired boy looked up and smiled into the pair of deep blue eyes. "Professor!"

He lowered his cup and beamed at the wizard. Madam Pomfrey had just given him another dose of the restorative draught immediately prior to the Headmaster's visit, as Dumbledore had quietly requested, and Harry was already feeling much perkier. He looked at the Professor and noticed that he was looking a little older than usual, and there seemed to be more lines on his face than the last time he had seen him. Harry's eyes flicked to the ancient-looking wooden chest that Dumbledore was holding, his long-fingered hands grasping the twelve-inch by six-inch container. It looked as if it hadn't been opened for centuries. He placed it on the bedside table and lowered himself onto the chair.

"How are you feeling?" he asked gently, the box momentarily forgotten as he gazed at the younger wizard, his voice etched with concern.

"Much better, thanks," Harry replied.

An unreadable expression flickered across Dumbledore's face, and he just stared at the Gryffindor for a moment. Then he relaxed his face into a smile. "I have something to show you." He turned to place the wooden chest on his lap and retrieved his wand from his left sleeve, pointing it at the brass lock. He whispered a string of words that Harry didn't understand and a thread of blue light poured from the end of his wand and encircled around the lock. With a SNAP, the chest opened.

Harry peered inside. A cylindrical object, shaped a little like an hourglass, lay on its side and occupied the entire space inside the chest. An intricate pattern of silver metal filigree was inlaid on the surface, and shimmered in the evening light. The body of the object glowed an icy blue and hummed softly. Harry found it difficult to draw his eyes away - it was almost as if this strange object was compelling him to reach out and touch it....

Dumbledore surveyed the wizard's reaction. "Do you know what this is?"

Harry shook his head, his eyes never leaving the entrancing object.

"It's a Mygrator," Dumbledore said slowly.

Harry thought he hadn't heard him properly. Mygra-what?

"You can hold it," the Headmaster offered. Instead of removing the Mygrator and handing it to Harry, however, he lifted the whole chest carefully off his lap and held it forward.

The young wizard reached a tentative hand towards the object, still encased within the wooden chest, and all of a sudden the pale blue colour vanished. It was immediately replaced by an angry reddish orange colour that swirled as if it was a liquid. The pattern of the inlaid metalwork started to move, slowly at first, then twisted and changed to produce a different form - but whether it was numbers or letters or just a random design, Harry couldn't tell. Within the depths of the swirling mass, he thought for a second that he saw the image of something - or someone....

He tilted his head to get a better look, but as he did so, yet another figure appeared in its place, so faint that he could only just make out a few features. Harry's breath caught a little as he dared to hope that what he was seeing was real - but no.... It couldn't be.... He stretched his fingers further, mesmerised by the light and the warmth and the shifting patterns. The humming grew louder as he reached closer, closer.... At the sight of this, the Headmaster nodded to himself almost absently, as if something had just been confirmed in his mind.

As the buzzing increased, Harry glanced quickly at the Headmaster, unsure if he should actually touch the object. He almost felt as though it might explode if he did. Dumbledore nodded encouragingly and Harry covered the last couple of inches between himself and the Mygrator. The effect was instantaneous. As soon as his fingers grazed the surface, the noise subsided and the object immediately shrank in size with a Pop until it was a miniature version of its former self, no bigger than an eggcup. Harry snatched his hand away in alarm.

"As I imagined," Dumbledore whispered, almost to himself.

He sighed and drew the wooden chest away from the startled wizard, and they both watched as the object immediately returned to its former size and colour with another soft Pop. Dumbledore shut the chest and whispered the locking spell under his breath before turning once more towards Harry.

"There is something that we must discuss." He replaced his wand in his sleeve and was silent for a few moments, as if searching for the right words to say. "There is a reason why I came to show you this, Harry," he finally said, his expression serious. "Do you know what a Mygrator does?"

Harry shook his head. He inwardly chuckled a little as his mind suddenly flicked to Hermione. He was sure that if she was here, she would have been able to reel of in a flash exactly what a Mygrator was, what it did, and what the going rate was for one on the current market.

"It is a transporter," Dumbledore continued. "It is the only device that can transport individuals or objects across time."

Harry sat up a bit straighter. Dumbledore waited a few moments for this to sink in. The young wizard shifted a little under his gaze. He frowned, remembering his own journey back in time to rescue Sirius and Buckbeak a few years ago. "What about Time-Turners though?" he asked.

"Ah, Time-Turners." Dumbledore smiled gently. "You will remember that I lent one to Miss Granger during your third year here." He nodded. "They are of use if one wishes to travel back a single day, or at the most a week - but if it is necessary to return years into the past then it is beyond the capacity of a simple Time-Turner."

"But what about that time I saw you in the Pensieve?" Harry interrupted. "I travelled many years back in time then...."

"That was a mere memory, Harry. Yes, you saw me in the Pensieve, but if you remember...no one saw you? You couldn't touch anything and nothing could touch you. To revisit a memory is not to travel into the past, Harry." Dumbledore's eyes flicked to the locked chest. "Mygrators are highly sought-after objects. As you can imagine, there are many things that one may wish to change about the distant past. Wizards and witches have gone mad trying to create them."

Harry frowned a little, chewing his bottom lip. "But can't you just use someone else's? Or buy your own?"

"Mygrators cannot be borrowed or bought, Harry. The only person that may use one is its owner. Side-along travel is possible, but not recommended, for it binds you to that person for the duration of your journey. And besides - even to get hold of a Mygrator is very rare, as there are very few of them in existence." Dumbledore's voice changed slightly and he once again glanced at the locked chest. "Only seven people in the world have one."

Harry suddenly felt a coldness creep into his stomach and he looked at the wooden box. He swallowed slowly. "Then whose is that?"

Dumbledore looked Harry straight in the eye and the younger wizard felt his breath catch in his throat.

"Yours."