Amber Dreams

The dawn light of Monday morning broke through the window like a spear, assaulting not just the eyes but the heart and the mind, joyful and triumphant, inconsistent with the winter air. Geoffrey smiled with the memory of forgotten dreams, and as he fell in to consciousness the memories of the past night met him. Ah, triumph. He lied there a while, silent but for the birds, and then memories of afterwards, with the headmaster, and Pellinore's sweating hand in his. He'd not say anything to Pellinore, he decided, not of that. That barely existed, it had been merely unity against the darkness that had scared them both, and in the bright light of the morning, it was little more than a dream, a nightmare even. After all, he had won, he had proved his honour and proved his upbringing gave him as just a right to pride as Pettigrew, with his moors and marshes at the edge of England. He twitched the curtains of his bed open and looked around. It was not even dawn, even a winter's dawn, and he stayed in the warmth of his bed a little longer, drifting in to deeper sleep.

* * *

"Ollivander. You're wanted."

There was somebody shaking his shoulders, and Geoffrey opened his silvered eyes.

"Who are you? What is it?" Sleep left his mind slowly. "Is it breakfast time yet?"

"It's John Weasley. You and Pettigrew are wanted before the Pride."

If there was anything that could have dampened Geoffrey's somnolent good spirits, it was to be brought before the Pride. Unofficial punishment of Gryffindors who had been deemed to have brought the House in to disrepute was dealt out by the Pride, unelected, unmonitored, a blind eye turned to them by the school staff.

Geoffrey got out of bed quickly. The talk in the common room two weeks ago had been of a girl strapped to a bed and propped against the fire for an hour, whilst hooded faces watched by the flames. And there had been a death once, said the fifth years, who gossiped and told tall stories. Geoffrey wasn't inclined to take the risk of angering them further.

"Pettigrew, your presence is also requested." Pellinore hardly seemed to have slept. Had he known, thought Geoffrey, that the Pride would want them? But it had hardly seemed, in the depths of the night and with Montgomery's broom to hand, that being caught by the Headmaster was anything terribly serious.

Four coins were produced by the Prefect as they pulled on their dressing gowns quickly. "Close your eyes, please." They could each feel the cool metal against their eyelids, and then a sudden heat, and they could no longer see, their eyes melded to the coins, though they could feel no pain. "Just a precaution, you'll understand. Hold hands, and I'll lead you down."

Geoffrey could feel the cold cobbles against his feet, as they left the room and descended the stairs. He though they were being led to the Common Room, but he was forced to bend by an unseen force- that would be the Prefect, he thought- and then he could feel thick dust beneath his feet, and little twigs. He could smell something, a musty, earthy smell, a little salty, perhaps. Then his feet found a ledge, all of their own accord, or at least he thought it was a ledge, and then his hands were moving upwards, and he found himself climbing. He could feel the stone through his fingers and toes, strangely warm for Gryffindor Tower, but his arms were numb to any voluntary movement, and he just let himself enjoy the feeling, almost as if he was flying.

And then, all of a sudden, the smell of dust and salty earth was gone, and his body was hauling himself into and then along a horizontal passageway, barely wider than his body. As he was pulled further along by his own hands and knees, he could feel the stones grow colder. His head scraped suddenly against the roof as it angled down, and he ducked his head down to avoid it. Ahead of him he could hear Pellinore's heavy breathing, ragged and panicky. It was hardly a problem to Geoffrey. City living had little time for fearing small spaces. Without warning, the coins dropped from his eyes and he blinked. Fresh air opened his lungs, and slowly his surroundings could be seen. He was on his hands and knees, on the floor of a little room, perfectly circular in shape. There was a dark figure to either side of him, and there were more, stretched around the chamber, encircling them. No more than six, thought Geoffrey.

"Hurry forwards to the centre, Ollivander." The voice was loud, almost in his head, and it was not the voice of a student. Pellinore was already there. He found his arms and legs were no longer numb with whatever spell had brought him here, and he shuffled forward in to the centre of the room, perching on the balls of his feet and glancing around the darkened room. In the gloom, lit only by a few candles, he could see their faces, white as snow, lips and eyes sunk black with shadows. With a start, he realised that they were not faces but masks, concealing their identity from anyone they judged.

"Geoffrey Ollivander. Pellinore Pettigrew. You've been summoned by the Pride to answer for your misdemeanours, namely getting nabbed by a Slytherin, and the Old Snake at that. How do you plead, bearing in mind that we know you're both guilty?"

For a moment, Geoffrey was taken in by the chatty manner, and snorted softly.

"It's not a laughing matter, Ollivander," replied another of the figures, behind him this time. "How do you each plead?"

"Guilty," replied Pellinore, firmly, before Geoffrey had a chance to say anything. A mask nodded in the darkness.

"Very good, Pettigrew. You may leave when we're done with your friend. Ollivander, you were unwilling to face up to your guilt fast enough. We're Gryffindors, not Slytherins, and you'll bloody well learn to think faster."

"What'll we do to him, Godric?" asked another voice.

The first speaker was silent for a moment, and then pronounced the punishment. "Give him a licking, strapped to his broomstick. Nothing too much, he has lessons and the Old Snake's punishment to get through. Saints Alban and Oswald, you do the honours."

The masks moved out of their circle and through a little door on the opposite side of the room from which Geoffrey and Pellinore had entered. Two figures remained, wands in hand.

"Pettigrew, through the door quickly. You'll find yourself in the Common Room." Pellinore scampered out through the door quickly, with scarcely a backwards glance. Geoffrey was left alone in the centre of the room. One of the Saints produced a broomstick- the one he had used last night, realised Geoffrey, with a little amusement- and then they hauled him up on to his feet, and they pulled his arms painfully behind him, and over the broomstick, until he felt as if he was strapped to a cross. Magical bindings tied his arms to the broom, and a shout of "Up!" hoisted him high in the air, until his feet dangled a few inches above the stone floor.

"Ten stripes, Saint Oswald, I think. Those dressing gowns give good padding, eh?"

"Ha, yes, I remember being beaten in my silkens, back in my second year. Caught off bounds in Hogsmeade. Right, young 'un, sooner you get this over at done with, the better for us all."

There was a sudden crack, and pain. The birch switch hit hard against his sheltered buttocks, and he swayed a little, suspended from the broom.

Caiatio primus .

And then another sharp shock of pain, a little lower this time.

Caiatio secundus.

It faded momentarily. And then he braced himself for the next lick of the switch, and it seemed to hurt more then, making him cry out with pain.

Caiatio tertio .

The numbers trickled past slowly with each hit. Caiatio quartus. Caiatio quintus. Sometimes they would hit the same place twice, which would have him gasp in pain, and a reprimand to "Take it like a Gryffindor, damn it." And then, after what felt like an age but could not have been more than a few minutes, he heard the words caiatio decimus, and the broom drifted to earth. The pain was still sharp, his arms ached, and he felt empty-stomached, but he was surprised that he could stand there without falling to his knees.

"Alright, young 'un?" asked one of the Saints, and they unbound him from the broom with a tap of a wand, and opened the little door. "We have to replace the wards, but if you pop down now you'll be just in time for a quick breakfast, I expect." Geoffrey made to leave, but a hand stopped him. "You did well, young 'un. Just own up when the rules catch you out, and we'll make a true Gryffindor of you yet." And then the same hand pushed him away, and Geoffrey walked, a little stiffly, down the narrow spiral staircase that led to a little portrait in an alcove of the Common Room, guarded by an energetic little knight.

By the time he had changed out of his dressing gown and nightclothes, and descended the moving staircases to the Great Hall, most of the students had already eaten, and little knots of conversation had sprung up. Geoffrey spotted a flash of auburn hair and made for it, not daring to look over to the High Table where the Headmaster- the Old Snake, thought Geoffrey, ruefully- normally sat. Today, though, the man was missing, his chair empty.

Geoffrey pushed the observation away and sat down next top Albus, who had

"King's Cross ghost cast from her grave!" proclaimed the headline.

"'Queen Boudicca, buried under Platform 10, and guardian ghost of King's Cross Station was found petrified and incoherent by a Hit Wizard patrolling the area. Aurors declined to give details of the culprit or spell used, but the Prophet demands to know more. Worried parents demanded to know whether their children were in danger, who have been using the station to board the 'Hogwarts Express' since Minister Muldoon's reformations. Again, the Department of Magical Law Enforcement declined to comment, though the involvement of Aurors suggests that Dark Wizards were involved.' And then there's a report on cauldron bottoms being too thick."

* * *

Transfiguration went smoothly, turning snails in to door knobs, and then back again, moving on to retaining the sheen of brass in the shell. Potions was next, and Professor Jeroboam set them to work making Calming Potions.

It happened near the end of the lesson, the potions either as still as an untouched pond, or bubbling noisily as their frantic owners tried to placate the mixture. Albus noticed but ignored it as he stirred the last tuft of goose down in to his potion, whilst Ollivander barely realised what was happening until it was too late. One of the Gryffindor girls snuck forwards from her worktop and threw a peck of black dust in to Lizzie's cauldron whilst her back was turned.

The effect was immediate, violent and loud. The potion frothed and spat boiling liquid high in to the air, splashing across Lizzie's robes. Steam rose from them and, howling with pain, she pushed away from the red-hot metal. Flames rose high around it, and the Professor, pushing his way forwards through the people who were watching, shouted out a command, and the room became cold and chill as a lake in winter. The liquid turned to ice, and the cauldron let out a defiant cry of metal cracking.

Lizzie left the room as fast as she could, the wreck of the potion behind her, before anybody could speak to her. Nobody was in the corridors, but as she turned the corner she could see a few of the girls leaving the dungeon, hasting towards her. She looked forward determinedly, and hoisted her satchel of books higher on her back. The Mirror Corridor reflected her oddly, as if the mirrors were each covered by a slow waterfall, but it gave her enough to see them crowd behind her. The occasional flash of green and silver would occasionally pass her, though the corridor would only show reflections, and the occasional buffet of a larger student would push her back. Nobody said sorry in the Mirror Corridor.

Then her reflection drew nearer, and she pushed the doors open, and started to pick up speed, heading off across past the Hufflepuff burrows, where there might be protection or safety. No such luck- the girls behind had found their way through the Mirror Corridor and were close behind her. Then, up ahead, she saw the little doorway that led out in to the courtyard where they found the foundation stone, and she burst through it roughly, ignoring the looks of passers-by.

There was a shout from behind her. "You're just a Mudblood, Lizzie! Raggedy arsed city Mudblood!"

She ran. They were chasing her now, through the Foundation Courtyard and then along the backs of the arching glasshouses that sheltered all manner of exotic foliage. Only thistles and thorn bushes grew outside though, and they tore at her legs. Lizzie had abandoned her heavy robes, and the girls had thrown them and her hat on to the roofs, and she knew it was a waste, but she'd not be caught. Eleven years on the streets of Westminster kept her bloody-minded and quick enough to dart away from trouble, whether it was other children, or adults who caught her nabbing a purse. But she knew the warrens of slums and open sewers like the back of her hand, scabbed and scarred as it was, and Hogwarts was new to her, and all she could do was run.

They were chanting again now.

Lizzie, Lizzie, Maudlin's pet

Can't do magic and wets the bed

She ran. It was true, all true, but she ran. The greenhouses gave way to open space, the long meadow down to the lake, the Great Oak rising high above the grass, bare and twiggy as if it was ink spreading through water, or cancer through veins, and maybe Albus would be there, or Geoffrey, and they would save her.

Behind her, the girls were slowed by the brambles catching their robes, although Lizzie's legs were bleeding, and they ached as hard as her chest. The meadow was muddy and slick with rain, and the turf tore up beneath her feet. The chant would fade and stop, and then start up again as the girls passed the rougher patches of ground-ivy and thorns.

Lizzie, Lizzie, Maudlin's pet

Can't do magic and wets the bed
Runs like a coward and doesn't get fed

Lizzie, Lizzie, Maudlin's pet

And then, as the roots of the tree rippled from the ground, and the grip of the grass disappeared, Lizzie slipped, her arms crumpling under her painfully as she put out her hands to break her fall. Mere seconds passed before they were on her, wands out and pointed at her, two of them lunging to hold her face down on the slick earth. Lizzie lashed out with her feet, and felt herself connect with somebody's shin; Cassie, perhaps. The girl squealed with pain.

"Get her legs, Cassie, or she'll kick you again."

"I don't want to get my robes muddy, Nancy."

"I won't tell you again, Cassie. Are you one of us or like her?"

"I'm yours, Nancy."

Her right arm was twisted sharply, and then someone heavy knelt down on her legs, pinioning them to the ground.

"Good. Now, Lizzie, you filthy creature, aren't you ashamed of what you did back there? You didn't even use your wand, just bawled like a baby, and you should be heartily punished, we reckon. So, we're going to burn you properly, like they did to the Mudbloods who were too stupid to listen to their betters."

Lizzie kicked and struggled, but all it did was push her further in to the mud, flecks or dirt coating her left cheek thickly as someone pushed her head down.

"That will be enough, . Uncle should expel you and be done with it, but you'll never learn like that. Haul her against the trees, girls."

They pulled her up by her legs and arms, and she thrashed against them, before one cast a spell and she felt her arms go limp and heavy as lead. Then they tied her to the Great Oak with bonds of magic and iron conjured from air. The girls jeered and shouted threats, wands out and ready for harm. Invisible flames licked her face as Nancy pushed her wand up close to her face, and Lizzie shut her eyes and tried to imagine the pain away.

And then the heat was there no more, and the shouting and jeering was gone, and she opened her eyes to see them walking away as if she had never been there, and they had just come back from the lake. A squirrel, clad in rusty fur, ran down the tree and scampered across her chest, down to the ground, grabbing an acorn and chattering all the while. For a moment, Lizzie strained against the chains that held her to the tree, the weight of her arms gone with her tormentors, but to no avail. The croak of a raven struck up, and from a high branch above her head it flew down to the earth my the squirrel. The squirrel darted up the tree, away from the raven, which cawed triumphantly and hopped round to face Lizzie. It strutted towards her, beak like blackened steel, his eyes glinting like glass. She eyed the bird carefully, but there was nothing to be divined from its eyes, except perhaps cunning and manic violence, but that was more the fault of the cruel grey beak.

A sudden flash of shadow made her blink, and suddenly before her was no longer a raven but a man, dressed in smart black robes. He eyed Lizzie up and down for a moment, as if to ascertain that she was there, and then took up a little tuneless, nasal hum.

After a moment of this, the stranger began to speak.

"I'm very, hmm, pleased to meet you. My name will be of little consequence to you, but you may call me Mr Black." She could tell he had an accent, but she wasn't sure what it might be. A drawl of the toffs and nobs, like Pellinore, maybe.

"Now, I assume that you are a student of this fine academy, and hence my dear ward is known to you. Unfortunately, he and I are on, hmm, bad terms, due to a little disagreement about, aheh, filial duties. We are trying to bring him over, but to do so I will require a, hmm, set of eyes at this school. And, well, my dear young girl , if you're that under all your filth and muck, you're just what I'm looking for. Might I enquire after your name, little one?"

Lizzie tried to push back against the tree. All her life in the depths of Westminster, surrounded by whores and murderers and villainy hadn't prepared her for this, bound to living wood and nowhere to run. She kept quiet.

"Kneazle got your tongue, eh? Well, we can cure that quick enough."

The man traced his wand down her face, from forehead and around her little lips,

cracked and bitten and worn.

"Did you know," he continued, there's a spell that can strip your memories away from your mind? Or another that would cause you to obey my every whim. Both highly illegal, of course, but infinitely preferable to removing your eye," as he pressed his wand against her right eyelid. Still she remained still. Somebody would come. Albus would come, or Geoffrey, with magic, and they would save her. And she realised then, somewhere in the back of her mind, that magic was nothing more than a tool, and she pushed against the tree, away from the binding vines, all natural and foreign to her.

"Oh, little one, there's no use straining." The wand dug further in, and she could feel the coldness of the wood against her eyeball.

"It's Lizzie. That's me name!" It was a panicked yelp, to stave him off. It seemed to work, as he lowered his wand, though still keeping it pressed against her skin, and he smiled insincerely.

"Lizzie... Very good. I'm not going to require your eyes, Lizzie. Not today." The bonds loosened. "You'll find you can struggle through quite easily when I've left, although there's no point in me telling you. Obliviate."

And suddenly her mind felt like muddy water, and she was left with a vague sense of shame, and all that remained was a raven, that cawed once and flew away from her, off in to the grey sky. Why was she bound here, she wondered, and then it all came back, the girls, and the mud and the stones. She had been unconscious before, more times than she could count, from times she had been too slow to run, or caught in the outpourings of taverns and rookeries when the Peelers came round. But never by children, not her own age, back in the city that had sheltered her like a grubby cloak. Here was too open, she decided, as the bonds faded in to nothingness, and she wiped the mud away and spat on her cuts for luck. Silently she retrieved her robes from the top of the greenhouse, carefully scrabbling up the grubby struts that held the panes of glass in place, and then she trooped up to the Common Room. Whispers in the corridors and on the stairs barely registered with her ears, and she muttered to the portrait so sullenly that the Fat Lady that was pictured there was hardly inclined to let her in. Nonetheless, she relented, and Lizzie stepped through the little tunnel and entered the Common Room, to change in to clean robes, ready for her next lesson.