Chapter 66 - The Uninvited Guest

"Hrrrgh! Hrrrgh!"

Harry shot up from the bed like a fish flung onto dry land.

He gasped for air. His clothes were soaked through with sweat, and the scar on his forehead burned and throbbed as if someone were pressing a red-hot poker straight into his skull.

He had dreamed a dream, nearly real, so vivid it felt like he had been standing right there in the room.

Voldemort. Peter Pettigrew. An old man crumpled on the floor. The images careened through his head like a mad bull with nowhere to go.

CLACK-CLACK-CLACK,

Harry held still, and slowly lifted his head.

That sound was what had woken him. It came from the anonymous "apology gift" he had received in his first year: a Native American Dreamcatcher.

The upper half was made of branches, the lower half feathers bound with twine. Between them hung a circular woven totem and a scattering of irregularly shaped stones.

While the nightmare had held him under, the Dreamcatcher's stones had knocked against one another, urgent, insistent, pulling him back awake.

In over 2 years of ownership, it had never made a sound. Now, on a windless, moonless night, it was striking itself, filling the silence with a bright, clear clatter.

Harry stumbled over and reached up to touch the dangling feathers. They brushed across his palm, soft and ticklish, and somehow, inexplicably, he felt a little better.

He looked out through the window at Privet Drive below. The whole street slept. Curtains drawn on every side, not a soul out there, not even the shadow of a cat.

The last time his scar had hurt, it was because Voldemort had appeared. So what about now?

Harry's thoughts scattered. He wanted to tell his two best friends, to say that his scar had hurt again.

But Hermione would only tell him to go to Dumbledore, or else dive headfirst into her books as though the answer were actually written down somewhere. He was the only person ever hit by Voldemort's killing curse who had survived. There were no books on that.

As for Ron, he'd probably ask his dad. Mr. Weasley was a decent wizard, but breaking curses wasn't exactly his specialty.

Ah. Why hadn't he thought of it sooner?

He didn't have a father. But he had Sirius Black.

Sirius Black was Harry's godfather. A month ago, Sirius had finally been exonerated, his name cleared after more than 10 years of wrongful imprisonment. Now he was working alongside Aurors to hunt down Peter Pettigrew.

Ever since learning that Sirius had never betrayed his mum and dad, Harry had desperately wanted to spend the summer with him. But Dumbledore had refused. He wanted Harry to remain under the protection of the blood magic.

Sirius had wanted to fight it, of course. He had never been a man who let rules hold him. But at the critical moment, Lupin had reached out and stopped him.

Their eyes met. Maybe the memory of the last time they had defied Dumbledore surfaced between them. Whatever the reason, Sirius couldn't find a single argument strong enough to take Harry away.

So he had held Harry instead, pressed his cheek against Harry's, and told his godson in a low voice: "Don't be sad, Harry. I'll write to you, no matter where I go. Whenever you need me — any time, any hour — write to me. I'll always be waiting. All right?"

Sirius couldn't stay by Harry's side. But he still protected him. Harry had used his name to keep Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia in line, letting them believe he had a convicted murderer for a godfather, one who had allegedly killed over a dozen people.

Now it was time to need Sirius again.

The Scottish seafood soup was just coming to a boil when Praeris heard a knock at the door.

Had Winnie forgotten her keys? Or was it one of the Muggle neighbors stopping by with more vegetables?

Praeris wiped her hands quickly and called out, "Coming."

She opened the door and found herself looking straight into a pair of deep, dark eyes.

The man was lean and tall, easily over six feet. Short black hair, gray eyes, posture loose and careless in that way that had nothing to do with ease. His expression was quietly melancholy.

He blinked when he saw her. "You're Brown's kid, I mean, where's your mother?"

My biological mother is in Azkaban. She was your cellmate, actually.

Praeris recognized him immediately. His hair wasn't wild anymore, and he no longer wore the hollow, frantic look from the wanted posters. But she could still see it clearly: Sirius Black, the man whose name had been cleared just weeks ago.

They looked at each other for a moment.

"How should I address you, sir?" Praeris said at last. "She didn't mention expecting anyone."

Sirius seemed a little out of his depth with an unfamiliar child, still finding his footing socially, from the looks of it. "Sirius, just Sirius is fine. Er, I've got something I need to talk to Winnie about..."

"Little Prie, is that a guest?" Mrs. Willow next door cracked her door open with undisguised curiosity.

Praeris glanced at Sirius, then at her Muggle neighbor. "Yes, a guest for Winnie. Mrs. Willow, thank you for the clams, they were wonderfully fresh." She stepped back. "Please, come in."

In truth, Sirius had come by way of Lupin's. After Lupin's last exchange of letters with Winnie, the two had met in person once more. Winnie, as Hill's most steadfast friend, had flatly refused to acknowledge that Praeris was Hill's daughter. Lupin had no choice but to accept that version of the story.

After Harry's letter arrived, both Sirius and Lupin were at a loss. Sirius's spellwork had frozen at the level it had been before his imprisonment, if anything, it had slipped. Lupin had spent those years scraping by just to survive. Neither of them had the reserves to push their magic further.

After thinking it over at length, Lupin said, "Why not go ask Winnie Brown? In Britain, no one alive knows more about incantations than Brown. Not even Dumbledore."

Winnie might not be the most powerful witch. But when it came to obscure magic, borderline heretical curses, no one knew more than she did. That included a great many spells Voldemort had invented himself.

Voldemort had treated her like a fully automated spell-manufacturing machine. Feed in enough incantations, White magic or Dark magic, it didn't matter, and she could rapidly create, synthesize, and refine new spells that were cleaner and easier to cast. She could teach them to other wizards without breaking a sweat.

Winnie Brown: a tool for sharpening Death Eaters into weapons.

"Are you out of your mind? She was Voldemort's student!" Sirius was on his feet as though he'd sat on something sharp.

Lupin didn't rush. "Would you dare believe that a Dark witch has never killed a single person? Brown never has. Sylvia used to say Brown was too young, that Voldemort had simply blinded her. Dumbledore chose to believe it too. He helped her resign quietly from the Ministry and stay one step ahead of the Death Eaters hunting her."

Sirius scoffed. "What she did was worse than half the wizards who actually pulled the trigger. Trust?! Dumbledore trusts Snivellus too!"

Even so, for Harry's sake, Sirius changed into Muggle clothes and made his way, furtive and careful, to Black Moon Rose Lane.

When the door swung open, it wasn't Ravenclaw's Winnie Brown standing there. It was a small, familiar-looking girl.

He had seen her before, more than once, near the Hogwarts greenhouses.

He didn't know her name. But he knew her cooking wasn't good.

Back when Crookshanks had been helping him out, the cat had begged food from this girl more than a few times. Always the same thing: dry, flavorless shredded chicken and dry, flavorless shredded beef.

Not that Sirius had been in any position to complain. When you were starving, food was food.

Crookshanks had even managed to get hold of a high-quality healing potion through her at some point, which had helped Sirius hold on a little longer against the transformed Lupin, long enough for Professor McGonagall to arrive.

Sirius settled onto the sofa and watched the girl called "Little Prie" pour him a glass of juice. "This is all we have," she said.

Guest adequately received, she turned and headed back into the kitchen.

Curious, Sirius craned his neck to peer in. So she could make more than dried chicken and dried beef after all.

CREAK,

"I'm baaack! Prie~ You have to give me credit, the supermarket nearby didn't have any celery, so I had to go all the way to... Sirius Black?! Why are you here!"

Winnie's bright, bouncy voice cut off like a snipped wire. The disgust in her tone was unmistakable.

Wednesday was not a good day.

Plim Purnell had gone back to her family home in Devon to tend the graves, and she had made it abundantly clear she wasn't bringing anyone with her.

So after finishing her coffee and wrapping up her manuscript work, Winnie had been draped across the sofa like a boneless snake, grumbling endlessly that Plim wouldn't take her along.

Praeris had shaken her head. "Stop sulking. I'll cook you dinner before I go. You are not conjuring sweets with food magic and calling it a meal."

When it came to eating properly, Praeris and Winnie were exactly as bad as each other, kindred spirits in negligence, so they had formed an informal mutual supervision pact: no cutting corners, no excuses.

Honestly, they just couldn't stand watching the other one live so freely, so they took turns accusing each other of moral dietary collapse.

As for what provisions Winnie actually had on hand, a few neighbor ladies had scraped together some vegetables for her, but the soup still needed one thing: parsley.

So Winnie had gone out to buy it, and missed Sirius's arrival entirely.

Sirius grinned with easy charm. "Brown, I didn't realize your kid was already this big. She at Hogwarts too? Looks nothing like you! I've got a small problem I need a hand with — for Dumbledore's sake —"

"I don't necessarily help even for Dumbledore's sake!" Winnie rolled her eyes with great feeling. "Little Prie, go to your room."

Praeris nodded and slipped naturally through the door to Winnie's bedroom.

"Right then. Troublesome matters, I won't help with. Non-troublesome matters, I also might not help with."

Winnie figured this would square the debt she owed Dumbledore for sending Praeris to her.

Sirius was quiet for a moment, then said carefully, "Do you know of any magic — Dark magic, especially — that could let someone share what another person sees and hears? Say something happens to Jack, and Mary can see it in her dreams."

Winnie gave him a peculiar look. "All this mystery for that? No, there's no such spell. Not Dark, not White. You'd think you were describing the Dioscuri brothers."

"What are the Dioscuri brothers?"

"The legend behind the Gemini constellation," Winnie said. "The elder brother shared his life with the younger. Their fates wound together, living and dying as one, never to be separated. After that, they shared the same soul. Destined for the same end. To see the other was to see yourself."

Sirius's eyes moved quickly. He muttered under his breath: "He doesn't have a brother."

Winnie yawned, crossed her legs, and managed to look even more indolent than Sirius did. "Here's my advice, Black. What you're describing doesn't sound like the product of any spell. It sounds like something in the territory of blood and soul. Don't come to me, find a reliable Diviner."

"Don't call me Black!" Sirius frowned. "Fine. Regardless, thank you. Looks like I'll have to go to Dumbledore after all."

Winnie laughed, short and contemptuous. "Off you go. No need to see you out. And don't even think about staying for dinner."

"Sharp-tongued woman!"

"Irresponsible dog!"

Praeris pulled the bedroom door open and stood in the doorway, brow faintly creased.

"What is it?" Winnie crossed to her and smoothed the loose hair back from Praeris's forehead.

"There's a 99 percent chance Sirius Black was asking on Harry Potter's behalf," Praeris said quietly. "Next to Hogwarts, he's practically a sieve."

"And the other one percent?" Winnie asked.

A soft laugh. "The other one percent, Miss, is my modesty."

Winnie looked somewhere between amused and exasperated. She patted Praeris's shoulder. "Come on then, modest chef. Let's taste this dinner."

Praeris was a natural in the kitchen. Every girl at the convent learned to cook, you had to, when it came time to help during church charity events and holiday celebrations.

To coax Praeris into cooking more often, Winnie praised the meal until it could have floated off the plate. Anyone listening in would have thought British cuisine was leading the world by a comfortable margin.

The next day, Lady Prie still hadn't come back.

When Lady Prie was around, you didn't always notice her. She was quiet, gentle, always listening with that soft look in her eyes. She was simply there, as if she'd always be there, as if you could turn around at any moment and find her.

But the moment she stepped out, even briefly, something felt different. Unsettled. You'd find yourself wondering whether she was all right out there, whether anything had gone wrong.

Praeris kicked Winnie under the table. "You haven't written a single word today."

"That's because my muse isn't with me!" Winnie declared, without a shred of shame.

"You didn't write anything at the shop either."

"Distance creates beauty," Winnie said. "But the distance can't be too great."

Praeris stopped engaging with her. She folded up the essay she had revised more times than she could count, tucked it into an envelope, and made a mental note to post it as soon as she was home.

"Are you going to the Quidditch?" Winnie said suddenly. "The World Cup."

Praeris shook her head. "That's not really my thing."

"It'll be brilliant!" Winnie seemed to have made her peace with not writing anything today. "Week after next, you, Plim, and me. All three of us. I happen to have 3 tickets."

"Er." Praeris gave a reluctant nod. "Fine, I suppose. But these next 2 weeks I'm not going anywhere. Otherwise I'll never finish what I've planned."

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