Dreamwalk Blue

DREAMWALK BLUE -- CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER TWO -- THE BOOK OF TRAVELS

No longer slinking,
Respectably drinking,
Like civilized ladies and men,
Cocktails for Two.

(from murder at the vanities)

When Albus returned from his early morning walk about the estate's grounds, he was greeted by the sight of Wodehouse, the manservant, overseeing the transfer of the Dumbledore's London household from a silver 1936 Daimler to the relative peace and quiet of the main house. The car listed like a conquered beast on the drive: its doors flung wide, boot open, bleeding luggage, servants and sundries from so many wounds. House elves buzzed about like stinging flies, while Wodehouse hovered like a watchful buzzard. And there, in the midst of a whirlwind of activity as always, was Albus' mother.

"Albus!" she cried, handing a hatbox to an already heavily burdened house elf. Ariadne Dumbledore was a handsome woman of fifty with an aristocratic nose and greying auburn hair. She was tall, slender and held herself well, having graced the parlors of many a well-born house in her youth.

"My dear, I am so glad to see you." She hugged him perfunctorily, as only so much maternal affection was appropriate before an audience of servants.

"Hello, Mother," Albus returned. "I trust the trip was uneventful?"

"Well." She adjusted the patterned scarf knotted at her neck. "We were very nearly upset by one of those dreadful aeroplanes near Beershorn Halt, of all unpleasant places. But no one saw us, so no harm done. Really, I don't know how we can go on sharing the skies with Muggles, who keep inventing new ways to fly every other day. Any day now they'll be making flying cars illegal. What's next? Broomsticks? I'm glad your father's not here to see it, he'd burst a blood vessel."

"And Aberforth? Did he not come down with you?"

"No. He'll be here this afternoon with the London cousins. Out cavorting till all hours, the lot of them." She shook her head. "Whatever shall I do with him? And close on thirty, too. He's far too old for those antics." She turned to her younger son and smiled. "But you, dear Albus, are my rock.None of that silly nonsense for you."

"Excuse me, madam." Wodehouse appeared at Ariadne's elbow. "Would you have me lay on breakfast now? Or do you wish to refresh yourself first?"

"Now would be lovely, Wodehouse." She dismissed him with a wave. "Come along, Albus," she said, returning her attention to her son. "We shall breakfast, and over a cup of strong tea you can tell me all about young Miss Lisbon."

By the time they reached the morning room, the table was already laden with a full breakfast. Albus wondered briefly how Wodehouse managed it all, magic or no. A tiny, female house elf clad in a violet-sprigged tea towel was just placing a pot of marmalade and spoon next to a large vase of enormous, yellow flowers in the center of the round table. She scurried out at the sight of the mistress and young master.

"Ah," Ariadne said, fingering the flowers as she sat down. "Those are rather vulgar, aren't they?"

"They are from our garden."

She made a face, then glared out the wide windows that opened onto the orderly garden. "English country garden flowers, of course. I suppose we should love them because they're ours and we've grown them from little bulbs and seedlings, but it isn't always possible, is it?"

"Carefully, Mother. More of that talk and I'll begin to divine a double meaning in it."

She laughed, pouring out the tea. "Not you, of course, my little sapling. You've grown straight and true as an elm, and have managed so far not to sprout any untoward blossoms."

Albus spooned a portion of kedgeree onto his plate and poked at it uncertainly.

"Now." Ariadne picked up her cup and fixed her son in her gaze. "How is your young June?"

"June is hardly mine, Mother." He jabbed at a kipper. "I do wish you and Mrs. Lisbon wouldn't conspire so dreadfully."

"Rhea is of that mind, certainly. But I shouldn't scheme to yoke you to anyone, Albus." She sipped thoughtfully at her tea. "However, I've watched the pair of you since the day you figured out boys and girls were differently equipped. Your heart was on your sleeve back then. You can't deny it -- and it's still obvious to everyone but you."

"Even were I to admit any feelings for June, it would hardly do me good. She views me with a sisterly affection and nothing more."

"You may be right," his mother said thoughtfully.

Albus looked up sharply. That didn't exactly fall under the heading of supportive, maternal advice.

"You may be," she continued. "But how you'll ever know for certain if you continue on as you are is quite beyond me."

A soft breeze stirred the white lace curtains, bringing with it the scent of freshly cut grass from the lawns. They sat in a companionable silence, broken occasionally by idle talk of relatives and old family friends. Albus spoke briefly about his classes and his students. All talk of romantic entanglement was, by silent, mutual assent, put aside.

When she was finished, Ariadne put down her cup with a clink. "Now, dear boy, I've an ocean of things to attend to for tonight, but we'll talk again later before all the clamor begins." She stood, squeezing his shoulder as she breezed out.

Albus, leaving his breakfast largely untouched, left the morning room in hopes of finding a place to keep safely out from underfoot. He rambled around the house at loose ends. He was far too preoccupied to attempt any work, though he knew he ought to take a look through his papers if he planned on discussing matters with June after dinner. So eventually he retreated back to the study.

He sat at the desk and pulled a large, ancient book closer to him. He unrolled a long ream of parchment and dipped his quill into a pot of indigo ink. A sound from behind him made him look up.

"Oh. You're back," he greeted the scarlet bird that alighted on a makeshift perch near an open window. The phoenix ducked its head in what Albus fancied was an affirmation.

"It is rather awkward, you know," he said after a moment. "I've no idea what to call you. Have you a proper name at all? I don't suppose you've any way to tell me even if you did.

"In fact," he continued, "it would make things much easier for me if you could talk. I'll wager you could explain a lot of this to me." He gestured at the book and his scattered papers. "What did Scoresby find? What did he learn? I know you were there until the end." Albus shook his head in defeat. "I'm sorry, old fellow. It's not fair of me to wish. Do you fancy something to eat? I'm sure I've got a packet of biscuits in here somewhere."

Albus rummaged around in the tiny bar built into one of the bookcases, coming up with a box of assorted cocktail biscuits. He crossed the room and offered one to the bird. It took the biscuit gently from his fingers and then extended its head to be petted.

"Spoiled old thing, aren't you?" Albus couldn't suppress a smile. "Here, have one of the cheese ones." The phoenix looked up at him with milky eyes and Albus would have sworn the bird was smiling. It seemed he'd made quite a friend. He crumpled the biscuit box and effortlessly Banished it into the rubbish bin. The bird piped a musical note in thanks.

When Albus sat once again at the desk and rescued his quill, poised to write, he felt a pleasant pressure on his shoulder. The phoenix perched there, a vaguely reassuring presence, watching over Albus' work for the remainder of the afternoon.

***

Not again, Albus thought.

Was this a dream or a memory? Perhaps he was dreaming memories. His dreams of late were so vivid, so important, so oppressive that he hardly knew where the boundary between waking and sleeping, remembering and dreaming, conscious and subconscious lay.
Once again he found himself in Dippet's office, standing behind a large, dark-haired boy. The headmaster sat behind his wide desk facing them.

"So, Albus, what do you propose?"

Albus looked down at his young cause. The boy looked perfectly wretched. Albus felt a sudden twinge of sympathy. Hadn't he lost his father just a few months ago?

With an eerie sense of the familiar he began to plead the boy's case. "If you could see your way toward just letting him stay on. He hasn't anywhere else to go…"

"You're too kind for your own good, Albus," the headmaster replied. The boy shifted and squirmed in shame, his huge bulk eliciting protest from the rickety chair.

"Please, sir." Albus squeezed the back of the chair, trying to keep in check the words he really longed to say. This isn't right. I don't believe it for a minute.

Don't you? another voice purred in his head. Do you suppose that you alone are right while everyone else has been fooled?

"Perhaps I do," he said aloud. The headmaster's office had faded, replaced by the damp, dripping tile of a communal lavatory. It smelled of mildew and, beneath that, the sickly-sweet decay of death, rotting flowers left too long in slimy water. The door of one of the stalls hung off its hinges. Albus dared go no closer, for he knew what he would find inside. Poor child, frozen and lifeless, but untouched. No spider had done that.

But then who? Or what?

Something soft and scaly slithered behind him, behind the walls, the scraping swish echoing in his head.

With a sudden jerk that nearly flung him out of his chair, he woke up. He looked up at the clock. The last few hours had slipped quietly away, and now he would be late if he didn't hurry. He was in his own suite of rooms at the back of the house. He crossed quickly to the large, mahogany wardrobe and snatched up his dress robes. Face washed, hair combed (oh, how his mother detested his long hair!), he dressed hurriedly, then ventured down the wide front stairs.

He came down onto the landing in time to see June in the entry hall, graciously allowing herself to be kissed on the cheek by his venerable grandfather. She looked far more subdued than she had Friday night. Her hair was pulled back into a conservative knot and her scarlet lipstick conspicuously absent. She caught sight of him on the landing and smiled.

His mother emerged from the parlor. "Fortinbras! There you are!" she said to his grandfather. "Really. You should let the elves get the door."

"How else will I steal a few moments with this stunning young woman all to myself?" He winked at June. She winked back.

Ariadne shook her head, then smiled, "So lovely of you to join us, June. It's been at least six months!" She took June's hand and pressed her cheek against the younger woman's making kissing noises at the air.

"Albus! Why are you hiding up there?" she said, releasing June and catching sight of her son.

"I'm not hiding, Mother." He descended and took June's hand, surprising himself by placing a light kiss on her cheek. "I'm glad you're here, June." Something about his family's presence made him more proprietary toward her than usual. Not seeming to notice, she took his arm.

"Thank you for inviting me," she said as they entered the parlor. "But something tells me this is about more than you missing my company."
"You're right. I need your opinion about some things, but that can wait until later."

Aberforth was leaning against the molded mantelpiece, swilling a snifter of brandy and chatting with their cousin, Algie, about Quiddtich.
"Carruthers just doesn't have the, you know, speed," he said, punctuating with his lighted cigarette. "Britain's without a chance this year."

Albus fixed June a drink while his maiden aunts clucked appreciatively over her: Didn't she look lovely? And so successful at such a young age. Her mother and father must be terribly proud.

"Oh, yes. Terribly," June said with a fixed smile as Albus handed her a drink.

Sunday dinner was a long-standing family tradition. One Sunday a month, all the aunts, uncles and cousins gathered at the country estate. When Albus had been younger, the house had filled up with laughing, joking people, drinking and eating and enjoying each other's company. These days they were lucky to fill all the seats at the table.

"I say, June Lisbon!" Algie exclaimed, sweeping over and claiming June's hand. "You look smashing! It's been simply ages. We missed you at the Cathcart's shooting party."

"Yes. Of course," June said. "I've never really cared much for guns -- silly, useless Muggle things. I don't see what you men find so fascinating about them."

Algie laughed and shook his head. "You always were a bit of a prickle, June." He leaned in conspiratorially. "If my old cousin here bores you to death, come find me, eh," he said and wandered off with a backward glance and a wink in her direction.

June put a hand to her head.

"Headache already?" Albus whispered. "Usually it takes me till the soup course."

"Madame," Wodehouse appeared in the door, "dinner is served."

***

By the time the soup was served, Albus did, indeed, have a headache.

He was seated at his mother's right hand, June across from him. His grandfather was at the opposite end of the table, with Aberforth at his right. Catching Albus' eye, his grandfather raised his glass in a subtle salute. Albus shook his head. The soup was of the very clear, very hot, consommé variety, which Albus detested. From across the table June smiled sympathetically at him.

"I so rarely get out here these days…" Ariadne was saying to June. "…spending more and more of my time in Town. I suppose I just get lonely now. This big, old house…"

"So, June," said Uncle Bertram from Albus' right. "You're a Ministry insider. Tell us. What on earth does the Ministry propose to do about this Muggle war? Surely, it can't be allowed to continue. Our kind are beginning to feel its effects."

June smiled slowly. To anyone that didn't know her, this would mean nothing. But to Albus who'd watched her go from safety pins to hairpins, the deliberate transformation was immediately obvious. Her face closed up behind a mask of polite professionalism, and she replied, much as she might have to particularly impertinent reporter, "I doubt our Ministry plans to do anything about the war. It's not our business really, now is it?"

"Humph," Uncle Bertram replied. "That's what they say, of course. But everyone knows we're involved. Of course, the Ministry doesn't like to admit it for fear of how it might look. But make no mistake, young woman; we're right there in the thick of it. Though to what end only those in power can say."

Ariadne scooped up her wineglass with a practiced hand. "Now, enough talk of politics. You'll put me right off this wonderful dinner." She took a careful sip, watching her brother-in-law meaningfully over the rim of the goblet.

He nodded, then turned his attention to one of Albus' many cousins. Wodehouse slipped in and consulted briefly with Ariadne about something.

June took advantage of the brief moment of peace to say softly, "You know, Albus, you're my one beacon of sanity at these dreadful social things. You always have been."

He smiled, seeing a reflection of his own amusement in her eyes. "You're a lighthouse in the gale for me, as well."

"Do you remember," she said, leaning forward with a malicious gleam in her eye, "your cousin Elisabeth's debut?"

"Oh, good lord." Albus flushed. "Now that was truly shameful."

"They were a load of silly bores and you know it."

"But still… I thought she'd never forgive me for that."

"It was quite funny!" June protested.

"What a pair of children we were -- all of sixteen and convinced we were so smart."

June pulled a face. "We were smarter than that crowd, not that it would have been especially hard to be."

"You're a terrible elitist," he said, as a servant finally removed his untouched, vile soup.

"That's not the attitude I recall you having at the time. In fact, I remember you getting quite silly on champagne and…"

He reached across the table and caught her hand. "June, my mother is sitting right next to you. If you finish that story, I shall have to kill you and then myself, and it would be ever so untidy and ruin everyone's dinner."

"All right then. I'll not spill your youthful indiscretions so publicly. I'll wait and blackmail you when I really need something."

The courses slipped past and the conversation naturally turned back to current events: the Muggle war, the accompanying uncertainty and disquiet in the wizarding world. June remained diplomatically silent throughout. When his grandfather finally suggested brandy and cigars, Albus plotted a way to excuse himself and June. Albus walked around the end of the table and offered June his arm. She took it without looking at him She was worrying her lip and staring distractedly at a portrait of Albus' thrice-great grandfather, Bingley Dumbledore.

"What is it?" he leaned down and spoke softly in her ear. "Am I such a bore? Would you rather sneak off and find a convenient rosebush with Cousin Algie?"

"Oh, do stop," she sighed halfheartedly.

"Well, when you won't even pretend to laugh at my terrible jokes, I know something's amiss. Tell me, June."

"All this talk of Muggles and war. It's as you were saying the other night. It's all coming home to us, I fear-" She shook her head. "And flag-brandishing Englishwizards like your uncle don't help matters."

"That was rather boorish of him, but-" he broke off, then, "You really are worried, aren't you?"

She pressed her mouth into a thin line. "It's nothing. Just idle talk. Don't look at me so! You'll give me wrinkles before my time." She paused, then laughed. "Oh, Albus! You are too good! You look as though you'd run out and slay a dragon for me just now! So serious, thou wrinkled brow. Unfurrow yourself, darling Albus. All is well. I promise."

***

After disentangling themselves from his family, he led her to the study. The lamps sprang to life, guttering and shying, at his mumbled word. June looked around curiously, down at the Turkish rug, up at the moving mural. "I've never been in here before. It's beautiful."

Albus smiled wryly. "In a terrifying sort of way. Yes."

She didn't hear him. "This may sound strange. But it, it smells like your father in here: old books, leather and pipe tobacco. I'll always remember that about him…" She broke off at the look on his face. "Albus, I'm sorry. That was terribly…I mean, you must still miss him and here I am making it worse."

"No." He shook his head. "It's quite all right. My father was a hard man to live with. I'm only glad to see that someone has fond memories of him." He turned away before the shocked expression on her face could turn to pity.

She walked over to join him by his father's desk, laying a gentle hand on his arm. "What is it you wanted to show me?"

Pushing thoughts of his father out of his mind, Albus picked up a sheaf of parchment. "I've been doing some translation work on this." He gestured to the book, which lay open on the desk. "Several months ago, Scoresby and Dent… you're familiar with them, aren't you?"

"Yes, Albus," she smiled. "Two of the most powerful wizards of the age? I've heard of them. I work with the press, you know."

Ignoring her gentle sarcasm, he continued, "They came into possession of this book of prophecies about ten years ago. Supposedly, it dates back more than a thousand years. They've spent the last decade attempting to translate it. They were nearly finished and wanted my help."

June said nothing, but merely raised an eyebrow.

"Just before the end of last term, Scoresby went abroad, searching for a corroboratory text in the North. Last month, his bird returned to me with this book."

"But where's Scoresby?"

Albus grimaced. "Dead. He was killed in Albania."

"And Dent?"

"Also dead. He died trying to help a wounded Muggle airman in Germany."

"How foolish. Getting involved in this war." She gripped the back of the desk chair hard.

"I can understand wanting to help, June." He shook his head. "But I also understand why we can't. Wizards are just as susceptible to the lure of power as Muggles are. Were we to fight to save lives, there would be those among us willing to fight for power. Rather than sparing lives, we would only cause more bloodshed." He pulled the book closer to them. "Bother men died, leaving me the only one with the knowledge to finish their work. Scoresby found something. I think those murders in Albania may have happened because he was there."

"But who…?" June began.

"I don't know. That's why it's so important to finish. If I'm understanding these findings correctly, there could be some serious implications." He looked up to make sure he still had her interest, then continued, "That's why I wanted to show you. You're very close to the attitudes at the Ministry."

She studied the book dubiously. "I don't really see what relevance such an old book could have. The Ministry is primarily," she seemed to choose her next words carefully, "interested in issues with immediacy."

"This has tremendous immediacy, June. In fact, if I'm right, it's directly linked not only to Scoresby's death and those murders abroad, but to the attacks at Hogwarts last term."

She looked up, clearly surprised. "Really? I thought all that had been resolved." The whole affair had been a public relations nightmare for not only the school, but the Ministry as well.

"Frankly, I think the whole thing was a gigantic cover-up." He looked her straight in the eye.

"A cover-up, Albus? I'm the first to admit the Ministry is less than honest with the public, but a cover-up that massive would be impossible. Someone would know. It could never be kept quiet."

"I'm not saying the Ministry covered things up. But I am convinced that the wrong person was blamed for it. A convenient person. Everyone was so eager to end the whole mess that no one asked questions. " He began flipping pages. "I know it's a long way from my suspicions to what this book says, but I'm making progress.

"It's all here, June. I was skeptical myself at first. This isn't the first time a translation of this book has been attempted. There are a lot of these so-called 'non-canon' texts in existence. They're very controversial, not even officially recognized as historical documents. People have attempted to disprove them, invalidate them, and some are worse than useless."

"You're losing me, Albus. I'm not an academic. Remember?" She leaned against the desk, gazing at him with a mixture of interest and concern.

He sighed, casting around for the best way to simplify this. "Perhaps I should start at the beginning. It has long been speculated that Rowena Ravenclaw was a somnium viator. The things she wrote, even before the school was founded, include all sorts of prescient allusions…"

June was staring at him as if he'd gone mad. "You think she was a Seer? I thought you had more sense than to believe in that sort of thing: table-tipping and scrying and the like. It's a whole lot of cheesecloth and nonsense if you ask me."

"Not a Seer, June. Somnium viator. A dream traveler, a wizard who can see the future inside other people's dreams." Catching sight of the look on her face, he said quickly, "It's not a myth. There are documented cases from this century. I can show you…"

"I believe you, Albus. It's the rest of this I'm finding hard to believe."

"Humor me for a moment. Let's say Ravenclaw was what I say she was. What would you make of this?"

He handed her a piece of parchment, watching as she scanned it.

At last she said, "This is nothing but a load of tangled images and vague innuendo. Any parlor magician worth his tea leaves could fake this."

"Ravenclaw had no frame of reference for the things she saw. The imagery is all relative to the period she lived in. Wouldn't it be stranger if she called automobiles, airplanes, electric kettles and such by their proper names when she'd never seen one?"

June put the parchment down and began to pace the length of the mosaic rug. "How do you even know for certain that Ravenclaw wrote this?"

Albus felt vaguely triumphant, he'd expected her to ask that question. "I don't know for certain. In fact, the Department of Magical Artifacts believes this book is a hoax. However, Young published his findings on this text. He had faith in its authenticity. He'd the one who translated the first pages of the book, and was able to correlate every one of her predictions to actual events."

She stopped pacing. "All this is after the fact. Albus, really. You can make any situation seem to fit a prophecy afterward. It hardly proves anything."

"That's what I thought as well, until Scoresby and Dent approached me with the things they'd found." He looked very seriously at her. "June, I began to translate the later passages myself… Yes, I know what you're going to say…"

"Well, that's impressive as I've no idea what I'm going to say." She looked from one end of the room to the other. "Did your father keep any brandy in here? I think I need some."

Albus pointed his wand at a section of bookcase and the small bar swung out. June poured two generous brandies and crossed over to him.

She was already drinking hers as she handed him the glass of caramel-colored liquid. "Albus, I know you've been at loose ends lately and I suppose I could've been a better friend. I've been so focused on… I think perhaps you just need…" She faltered, then seemed to make up her mind. "Take this to the Ministry and they'll laugh you out of Hogwarts. Playing the eccentric professor will only protect you so far."

"The Heir of Slytherin is described in detail."

She started. "Well, no wonder no one wants to believe it. That old controversy."

"I hardly think we can dismiss it as a myth anymore, in light of what's happened." He closed the book with a flash of frustration.

"You truly believe that Scoresby died because of his research? And you think that by deciphering the things written in this book, you can find out who the real Heir of Slytherin is and see justice done?" she asked carefully.

"Yes, I do." His expression was grave. "And I have to try."

She nodded slowly. "I'm willing to hear you out because you're my friend, but no one else will listen. You do know that?"

"I expected as much, but that's not going to stop me from continuing this research." He looked up again. "What do you say? Will you help me?"

She seemed to be considering, then finally said, "Why you?"

"What?" He was taken aback. "What do you mean?"

"Why did Scoresby and Dent ask for you specifically? They had a hundred other resources at their disposal. But they came to you." She leveled her even gaze at him. "Why?"

He considered a moment, then decided to tell her the truth. "The book told them to," he said at last.

***