Anachronism

Albus woke up. Early morning sunshine filtered through an open window. He groaned. For most of the summer of 1899 he had been getting up horrendously late. But when he shifted, he was surprised to feel a soft mattress underneath him, the sheets something like silk.

He slipped out of the bed and realized he wasn't wearing his own sleep-clothes. It was some sort of patterned pajama set, inlaid with flying dragons and fluffy clouds. The sleeves slipped over his hands. By the bed was a set of fluffy pink slippers.

Albus did not recognize the bedroom he found himself in. Mahogany bookshelves, a wide four-poster, nicer than anything he'd had in Godric's Hollow. He wandered towards the window. Hogwarts' familiar grounds spread across his vision, sprawling and untouched, except for a willowy-looking tree he didn't recognize.

This was getting stranger by the second. Albus suspected some sort of magic. But he and Gellert hadn't attempted anything particularly dangerous the night before; except, of course... Albus absently touched the newly-made scar on his hand. Then he went to investigate.

Some people might call it ‘snooping.’ Albus preferred ‘reconnaissance.’

The side tables were locked. The books were more interesting—ranging from academic texts to flick fantasy and romance Albus wouldn't admit to ever enjoying. He returned to the bed and shifted the blankets around, uplifting a pillow. A stick rolled out and fell to the floor.

That was no stick! Astonished, Albus bent down to pick up the wand. It was smooth and straight except for the ridges every half inch or so, knobbly in his hand. Something tickled in the back of his mind. An illustration, a lazy summer day, an owl swooping down...

But it couldn't be. In Hogwarts? What were the chances of Albus waking here, no memories how he arrived, with the Elder Wand underneath his pillow?

Whatever the chances were, Albus assumed they were in his favor. He stuffed the wand in his waistband hastily, and newly invigorated, went to explore this stranger's trove more. He must write Gellert at once!

The bedroom was connected to the larger Headmaster's office. It wasn't decorated the same as Headmaster Black's—not enough House-Elf heads, too many books. Albus attempted to rifle through the drawers of the desk but they were locked as well, and he had no idea where his wand was, and too apprehensive to try with the Elder Wand just yet. A few letters were left out on the desk which he settled for.

It seemed to be things about school supplies, potion shipments, professor contracts. Albus skimmed through their contents, already bored. But then sign-offs at the end caught his attention—A.W.D.

Those were his initials. A new suspicion dawning, Albus hurried to acquire some paper and a pen, furiously writing, his handwriting coming out slanted and hurried for his haste.

                   Gellert—

                   I've awoken in the Headmaster's Tower in Hogwarts. The last thing I remember is our promise of eternal summer. I don't know what happened but I have my suspicions, and if they're correct, something similar happened to you. Write me back when you can, wherever you are.

                   ⏃lbus.

He wanted to rush to the Owlery, and went to do so, but knocked into some kind of silver stand. He fell down to the floor, the letter fluttering out of his grasp. There was a small poof of air—not quite like Apparition—and then a melodious coo.

“What?” Albus whispered. The phoenix regarded him thoughtfully, an almost concerned gleam in its beady eye.

It gently floated to the ground near Albus, and to his shock, nudged his head. Reluctantly, Albus pet the phoenix's downy feathers. 

“Hello,” said Albus, awed. “Who are you?”

The phoenix cooed again. This was not an answer. Or at least not one Albus could translate.

Albus glanced at the fallen stand. Engraved on the rod, the perfect size for, say, a resting phoenix, it said Fawkes.

“Well, hello, Fawkes,” Albus murmured. “It's nice to meet you. Er, re-meet you.”

Fawkes chirped.

For a moment all Albus could do was bask in the glory of this creature. This creature, who he had half-believed was only a myth, passed down for generations in the Dumbledore family. Made alive. Real. First the Elder Wand—and now this. Albus was ecstatic and eager to share the feeling.

He scrambled for the letter and handed it over to Fawkes.

“Please take this to Gellert Grindelwald,” Albus said.

Fawkes tilted his head, as if confused. Then, shaking out his feathers, he took off in a burst of feathers and winged out of the office, heading for the open window in the bedroom, letter clutched in his beak.

Harry Potter was not having a good summer. As a general rule, his summers were never good. But the summer before fifth-year was shaping up to be particularly unfortunate.

He kept having recurring dreams about Cedric. Dudley and his gang were awful about it—so he avoided them. Mostly, Harry spent his time in the abandoned playground, lying in the tall grass or forlornly sitting on the swingsets. Vaguely, he knew this was pathetic, but couldn’t find it in him to return to the house much, or that cramped bedroom where he woke up every night in a cold sweat.

It was lonely. It was always lonely, but something about it felt different this year. Ron and Hermione were sparse in their letters; Sirius was almost worse, with empty reassurances that Harry thought about throwing away every time he received one (though he never did, of course). 

There was a pent-up rage in him that made Harry restless. He paced the block, scratched his quill so hard it cut the parchment, and antagonized Dudley if he got too close. Something was different. Harry didn’t know what. But he felt it, deep in his bones. He didn’t tell anyone about it—whenever he tried to write the feeling down, everything came out sloppy, confusing. Those letters were always binned.

Then Professor McGonagall appeared. 

“Potter,” she said curtly, standing there, just on the block, exposed. It was a juxtaposition that left Harry unbalanced, his world had tilted on its axis. He couldn’t reconcile the image of Professor McGongall—so tied to Hogwarts in his mind—with her smart Wizarding robes to here, to this street, with its repeated brick houses and tidy lawns and Muggle cars. Yet there she was, lit by the fading evening light. “Good afternoon.” 

“Er, good afternoon, professor,” said Harry, bemused.

“Go get your things. We’re leaving.” Professor McGongall softened a bit at Harry’s obvious confusion. “Dumbledore was supposed to pick you up three days ago.” 

“Oh,” said Harry. “Where’s he, then?” 

Professor McGongall hesitated, then said, “Indisposed, as of currently. But I am here now.”

This was vaguely ominous in the way all news about adults are. A shock to the system, to realize they were human, too. And Dumbledore had never been human in Harry’s mind—not fully, not really. Too idealized, too strange, too magical. 

Harry slowly started towards his house. He half-expected the professor to wait outside, but she didn’t. As Harry unlocked the door she followed him inside, nose upturning at the sight of the delilahs Aunt Petunia had put out on the table, the line of family portraits that decidedly did not feature one raven black-haired boy.

Fortunately, Harry never fully unpacked when he came back from Hogwarts. It felt like tempting fate, after Dobby, as if saying he might never leave again. He quickly picked up what little things he had lying about and stuffed them into his trunk. When he thudded downstairs, Professor McGongall was in a stare-off with Aunt Petunia, who was white-faced and frozen as if hit by an Immobulus.

“You’re taking him early, then?” said Aunt Petunia.

“Yes,” Professor McGongall said. She eyed Harry’s trunk, his relieved posture. “I do hope you won’t miss him too much.”

Aunt Petunia scoffed, then turned it into a cough. “Off the boy goes, then.” 

Harry made for the door, but stopped when McGongall said: “You won’t even say goodbye?” 

He turned to find her staring, thin-lipped and brows furrowed, at Aunt Petunia. It was perhaps the most disapproving Harry had ever seen his professor.

Aunt Petunia did not seem to know what to do with this. Stiffly, as if forced from somewhere deep within she’d rather not drag out, she said, “Good-bye, Harry.” 

“Good-bye,” said Harry slowly. His aunt nodded, once, decisively, before turning heel and exiting the room.

In a daze, Harry left 4 Privet Drive with Professor McGongall. It was only after they’d Side-Apparated that he realized it was the first time in years he’d heard Petunia use his name.

They appeared on a long metropolitan Muggle street. Professor McGongall straightened her robes before handing Harry a note. On it was written: 12 Grimmauld Place. After he read it, the note burst into flame, crumbling into ash in his hands.

“Professor, I don’t—”

“Look up, Potter.”

Harry did. Where before there were three townhouses, now stood four. Harry gaped. 

“But—how?”

“The Fidelius Charm,” said Professor McGongall swiftly. “It hides buildings—and the people inside them—from those who don’t know the secret.” She nodded to the note. “It’s where your friends have been for this summer. It is Sirius Black’s ancestral home.” 

“Sirius is here?” asked Harry.

“Yes,” McGongall said. She smiled faintly at Harry’s excitement. “Come along, then.” 

They walked up to the door. Knocked. After a moment the door creaked open. 

“Y’ello?” said a woman’s voice. 

“It’s us, Miss Tonks,” Professor McGongall said. 

“Oh!” Tonks, a girl a few years older than Harry with short purple hair, beamed at them and opened the door fully. “Good to see you, professor! And Harry! It’s good to meet you.”

“You as well,” said Harry, bemused. He wandered inside. It was a dark entryway, with an elongated hallway that arched into a kitchen. 

He hesitantly touched the banister of the stairs, then jerked away as footsteps pounded down. Ginger heads peeked over the side—Ginny, Ron, then the twins appeared. Sirius came next, though he hung back—and then all Harry saw was a blur of frizzy brown hair—Hermione was knocking him over with the force of her hug.

“Harry!” she exclaimed. “Oh, Harry—it’s so good you’re here!”

Once Harry had freed himself from her embrace, Ron clapped a semi-awkward hand on his shoulder. “It’s good to see you, mate.”

Harry grinned and drew Ron into a hug. “You, too.” 

“I’m glad you’re home,” said Sirius softly.

By his side, Hermione was hovering anxiously. “I wanted to write about the house, about everything, I really did, but—well—” 

“But well what?” Harry said.

Hermione looked abashed. “Dumbledore told us not to.” 

Harry had a flash of anger at this idea, and then an unfamiliar, polite voice was saying—“I did? How queer.” 

Whirling around, Harry spotted a boy who had followed behind the Weasleys more sedately. He was dressed in what struck Harry as normal Muggle clothing, but seemed strangely dressed on the boy. His hair was a deeper red than the Weasleys, more copper maybe, and grown out to his shoulders. There was a glimmer behind his eyes, something both kind and faintly proud.

“Hello,” said the boy demurely, reaching over to shake Harry’s hand. “My name is Albus Dumbledore.”