Chapter 24
Edith Macready lay peacefully asleep in one of the beds in the hospital wing. A transfer to St. Mungo's would have been, without a doubt, the proper protocol for her, but due to the intervention of Dumbledore and Professor Plummer, it had been decided that, for her safety, she would first be taken to Hogwarts.
Yet Edmund was sure it wasn't just the woman's safety that was at stake. No, it was clear they were protecting the secrets the professor's former housekeeper might be keeping.
"We can't trust her, Albus," Robert Pevensie murmured in the darkened room. "She tried to lock us in a cellar."
"She needs rest," the headmaster replied. "Don't you see she might have the information we're looking for?"
"That you're looking for, Albus—don't get it twisted," Helen interjected. "I think Polly should talk to her—or my children..."
"This is becoming bigger than all of us, Helen," the old man said slowly.
They had been arguing for several minutes, only a few feet away from where Mrs. Macready lay. None of the siblings had wanted to go to bed; they simply couldn't. Peter, Susan, and Lucy now stood in the hallway, away from the whispered discussion taking place in the infirmary. But Edmund couldn't resist staying close to listen.
"I think my mother is right, Professor," he said, debating whether to step in or not. "We won't hide anything from her, but maybe it'd be better if she spoke with us first."
"Perhaps the woman doesn't even know anything about..." Polly began, but stopped abruptly, realizing that Remus and other members of the Order were still there, "about the matter concerning our visit."
"Besides, she's obviously traumatized," Edmund added. "She was scared like a child when Lucy found her. She only wanted to talk to us. Maybe that's why she locked the others away. It's quite reasonable to assume she was hiding in the house, only showing herself to a familiar face."
"Exactly," Helen said, pride filling her voice. "Well said, dear."
"Very well," the professor replied. "But I want to be informed of everything."
"Won't we send her to St. Mungo's?" asked Remus.
"No, that would be dangerous for her," said Albus Dumbledore. "We don't know to what extent the enemy has infiltrated the hospital. Official channels are no longer reliable."
"That's absolutely true," Helen agreed. "She's safer here."
"Alright..." Dumbledore said, "I think the youngsters can take shifts tonight, waiting for her to wake up. Is that acceptable, Mr. Pevensie?"
"Of course, Professor," Edmund replied. "We'll stay here."
Albus smiled at Edmund, and the boy returned the smile. For the Slytherin, it was hard to keep Narnia's secrets from the headmaster. He knew he had to, but he also understood Dumbledore's anxiety to protect the magical world. This was no game; what they had on their hands was deadly serious. The things Voldemort could do if he learned how to travel between worlds, to reach Narnia—it could destroy everything.
His mother kissed him on the forehead before leaving, while his father squeezed his shoulder affectionately. They both vanished into the darkness of the night, leaving him alone beside Mrs. Macready's bed. He approached her, observing her emaciated face under the torchlight. He couldn't help but remember the fear the woman had instilled in him the first time he'd seen her. It had sparked a rebellious urge in him in every little thing. But over time, he had come to know a woman who was good and brave, though perhaps also a bit sad.
Tonight, she too looked sad as she slept peacefully in the infirmary of the school she once attended.
"She looks different, doesn't she?" Lucy's voice whispered from behind him. "She couldn't even tell me more than a couple of coherent sentences when I was with her."
"What did she say?" asked Edmund as his sister moved closer to cover the woman with another blanket.
"Something about He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named," she said, "and the professor. She was terrified. I think she hid the night they came for the professor. She spoke of a traitor."
"A traitor?"
"Someone must have let them into the mansion that day, right?" the Hufflepuff replied.
"I suppose so," he said. "It does make sense."
"I think that person came back more than once," she continued, "or at least that's what I gathered from what she told me. And she was hiding from him."
"And apparently from everyone else," Edmund added.
"Who knows what she's been through," Lucy sighed. "Poor Mrs. Macready."
They spoke slowly and softly, as if not wanting to break the silence around them. The visit to the mansion had left them both deep in thought and exhausted.
"I think you should go to bed, Lu," the boy said, placing a hand on his sister's back. "You're worn out."
"I'd love to stay here..."
"But you shouldn't," he replied. "You'll take your turn in the morning."
"Alright..." she said, "Peter will be here in a couple of hours to relieve you, okay?"
"Good..." Edmund said as his sister squeezed his hand affectionately. "Rest well..."
Once again, Edmund was left alone in the dim light. Time passed, and his hopes of the woman waking to reveal all the answers he sought began to fade. Boredom took hold, and he began to yawn.
For, unfortunately, in this war, Edmund Pevensie would have to get used to the fact that sometimes, in the midst of battles, there was only silence.
Sirius Black woke in the middle of the night, startled. After so many years, one would think he'd grown used to the lurking nightmares that haunted his mind each time sleep claimed him. But no—the shock was always the same. Just as distressing.
Waking up in the back room of Borgin & Burkes didn't improve the uneasy feeling that lingered upon waking. But maybe it was better than his old family home. It might have been a darker place, but it wasn't as overrun by the emotional weight that memories brought with them.
He rose barefoot, the cold wooden floor creaking beneath him. He'd grown accustomed to the chill on his skin, his companion through countless nights, present in the wind slipping through the cracks of that cell, carrying the echoes of waves and raindrops. He remembered the feel of the bars and the rough stone, the air thick with dementors. For years, all he had felt was cold.
He lit a small light with the wand he kept at his bedside. The room looked better once illuminated. He had decorated it, somewhat to his taste, but without raising suspicion for anyone who might venture inside.
He stepped out from the back room without taking another sip of Polyjuice Potion. There was no taste as foul as that of the fetid potion mixed with hairs from the owners of that sinister shop. The windows were already covered with enchanted blinds, concealing the interior. And, in a pinch, he could always shift to his dog form in an instant.
He walked slowly toward the Vanishing Cabinet, tracing a finger along its wood. It was so tempting, having a portal to Hogwarts within reach and having to remain in that place. But Dumbledore had entrusted him with a mission, and he had to obey. He owed it, after all. It was the price of his freedom.
Opening the cabinet door, he found a small notebook, black with silver initials engraved on the cover: D.L.M.
"You're in deep, young Draco," he muttered. "Aren't you?"
He picked up the notebook and flipped it open. It looked like a journal, practically empty. He scanned the previous pages, noticing that, occasionally, the boy had marked an "X," followed by another "X" in a different ink. He flipped through to the current date and found an "X" again, this time unaccompanied.
It took him a while to locate the inkpot from which Mr. Borgin—or whoever else might have been responding—had made the previous marks. But after several minutes, he found the ink. Moments later, the notebook vanished with a soft snap, and silence once again filled the shop.
Sirius took a deep breath and looked around. Sleep had abandoned him, leaving him wide awake in the middle of the night. He was getting used to this life. Not many people came to buy during the day, and nothing suspicious had happened since he had replaced the real shopkeepers. Every morning, a confused old lady would wander in, looking for an ice cream shop, and each time, he'd brusquely point her in the right direction (so as not to raise suspicions). Occasionally, an intriguing customer would come in, but they would buy what they wanted and leave.
For the most part, he was alone within those walls.
He began to pace around the shop, studying the shelves. It was all truly disturbing artifacts, each destined to be bought by someone, for reasons he couldn't quite grasp. He moved to the back of the store, where the dust seemed to pile thicker on the furniture. No one ever bought anything from that section. It had been days since he'd last wandered down that aisle.
Something caught his attention in the book section. Among the dusty volumes, one stood out. It was a deep purple, its silver lettering shifting subtly along the spine.
"Memoirs of Charn" Sirius read softly.
He pulled it from the shelf and read the author's name, which, for some reason, seemed oddly familiar: Andrew Ketterley. Where had he heard that name before? He felt he should know it, but his mind couldn't summon the memory.
"How strange," he murmured.
The cover was also in motion. More visibly than the spine, though not rapidly. Lines spun, circling each other without ever touching. It was dizzying to look at, but at the same time, he couldn't look away. The lines moved almost hypnotically, orbiting each other as if bound by some invisible force.
Sirius opened the book abruptly, and its contents contrasted sharply with the cover. The letters were plain, and the print didn't seek to impress. He'd opened to the author's page.
About the Author
Professor Ketterley, a scholar of the most intriguing and mysterious sciences of his time, dedicated his life to the rigorous and passionate exploration of a possibility that, in our age, borders on the unbelievable: the existence of worlds beyond our own. Despite his logical nature, his curiosity led him to realms of science and knowledge few would dare to explore. With a sharp mind and an untiring spirit, Ketterley lived isolated from the recognition others might seek, for his research, visionary to some and bizarre to others, earned him few sympathizers among his peers. Nevertheless, he remained steadfast in his conviction that reality itself was woven from finer threads than commonly believed.
This first volume, launching an ambitious series, unveils the details of his unique discovery: contact with an inhabitant of Charn, a land foreign to any human conception but connected to our universe through pathways previously hidden. With the precision of a naturalist and the fervor of a visionary, Ketterley recounts this encounter as a key piece of his thesis, arguing that the barriers between worlds are but illusions dissolved by science and understanding. In these pages, readers will find an introduction not only to the grand theory of parallel universes but to the very soul of a man who tirelessly sought to unravel the mysteries lying beyond human sight.
Sirius fell into thought. This was an unusual subject, to say the least. Few in the magical world had ever considered the existence of other worlds beyond this one.
Yet, he remembered that, at one point, the topic had also gripped the mind of his late mother. Only briefly—it was a passing interest. Could it be that she'd seen this book on the shelves? Maybe that's why the author's name felt familiar.
The question took root in his mind. What if the book had indeed belonged to Walburga Black?
He couldn't resist. With his heart pounding, he flipped to the title page, fingers nearly slicing through the pages from the speed of his movement. His eyes scanned faster still.
Earlier, Sirius had thought he was in complete silence, but it was nothing compared to the silence that enveloped him when he looked at the back cover and found the owner's name written in ink.
The world seemed to stop, as if the night were swallowing it whole.
Sirius read the name again, hardly believing it. His heart raced. Yes, he had read it correctly. It was there, written in a serpentine script—the name so many feared:
"Tom Marvolo Riddle"
Peter awoke with a jolt as his head fell forward. For a moment, he thought he was on a Muggle bus line, heading home from the city. But reality quickly crashed over him: he was far from that.
He looked around the infirmary, still half-asleep, his eyes barely open as he scanned the dim surroundings. It was late, very late, and Mrs. Macready was still deeply asleep.
He was exhausted. The day had been grueling. His mind, still sluggish, drifted back to Professor Kirke's office, where Hermione Granger had been helping him sift through papers and books. Surreal.
"What subject was the professor researching?" she had asked.
"I thought we agreed, no questions," he'd replied, feeling a bit tense.
"I'm not asking what you're doing here or what you're looking for," Hermione had insisted, her eyes fixed on the books. "But this collection is really curious to me."
"He was a scholar of many subjects," Peter had answered, his voice unsteady. "But what we need now... it has to do with... travel."
"Travel?" she'd murmured, tilting her head.
"Between worlds," he had finally whispered, feeling his heart pound. "Travel between worlds."
That moment was etched clearly in his memory. While he'd felt embarrassingly clumsy, nearly trembling as he said the words, Hermione, by contrast, had remained calm. She'd turned her head from the shelf with a serious expression that slowly transformed into a reflective smile.
Why did he feel so foolish? Why was it so hard to keep secrets from Dumbledore, yet he completely unraveled in front of Hermione?
But she hadn't asked anything further. With impressive skill, clearly honed over years of practice, she'd started placing books in her bag at lightning speed, not asking another question. Well, except for one. Just one.
"What's that page?"
It had been right before the clock marked their time limit when Hermione noticed the page of dates that Peter had picked up from the desk. Her curiosity must have gotten the best of her, for she immediately moved closer to him, almost instinctively, as if unaware of it, standing mere inches away.
Peter remembered the sudden rush of heat to his face. Hermione's face had been so close that he could feel her breath as she looked at the page he was trying to hastily tuck away. She lifted her gaze, her eyes alight with curiosity.
"I don't know," Peter had stammered nervously. "But it might be important."
She hadn't said anything more, though her lips looked as if they were struggling to keep her promise not to ask. She simply nodded, and a stray lock of her hair, stirred by a faint draft, brushed against Peter's cheek.
Maybe only a few seconds passed, but to Peter, it felt like an eternity. Hermione's eyes locked on his, their foreheads so close he could almost feel the warmth of her skin. With any other girl, it might have been awkward. But not with her.
He'd been nervous, yes. But not uncomfortable.
Returning to the present, Peter opened his eyes. He needed something to focus his tired mind on. With trembling hands, he reached into his bag and pulled out Professor Kirke's enchanted book, along with the page he'd hidden within its pages.
They were only dates, places, and scattered coordinates on the paper, like pieces of a puzzle he couldn't understand. It didn't seem like a list but rather an abstract map, a drawing he couldn't decipher.
"That page again," a voice whispered behind him, soft as the breeze beginning to slip through the window.
Peter started slightly, having not heard any footsteps. Turning, he found himself face-to-face with Hermione Granger again. The girl he hadn't been able to stop thinking about all night. She was dressed in a loose sweatshirt and baggy pants, her hair tied up in a messy bun. Despite her sleepy appearance, she smiled warmly at him.
"Good morning," she whispered, a little uncertainly, as if not wanting to intrude.
Peter returned a small smile. Outside, the sky was beginning to take on a soft orange and pink hue, announcing the sunrise. The night hours seemed to have finally passed.
"Good morning," he replied, his voice somewhat hoarse, but gentle.
Hermione stepped a bit closer, her gaze shifting to the bed where Mrs. Macready lay.
"How is she?" she asked, a hint of concern in her voice.
"We still don't know," Peter said.
Hermione fell silent for a moment, searching for the right words. She looked down, thoughtful.
"Were you two close?" she finally asked.
Peter gave a half-smile, tilting his head.
"I don't think she's the kind of person it's easy to be close to," he replied. "But I think, over time, we grew to have a certain affection for each other."
"Well, you certainly are that kind of person," Hermione said. "But... this... have you been able to get any rest?"
Peter shook his head softly, a small smile on his lips.
"Not a wink," he replied.
"If it makes you feel better... neither have I," Hermione said, sitting down beside him with a hint of camaraderie.
"It doesn't make me feel better," he said, raising an eyebrow. "It actually worries me. Did something at the mansion bother you?"
"No... not exactly," Hermione replied, a little uneasy.
She shifted in her chair, slowly crossing her legs, her gaze returning to the page in Peter's hands.
"Listen... I don't want to meddle where I'm not welcome," she said, somewhat tense, "and I won't, I promise. Unless... well, unless you want..."
"It's not that I don't trust you, Hermione," Peter said sincerely, "it's just that... I don't know if I'm allowed..."
Hermione looked at him, and it was as if she didn't need more words to understand. Peter felt truly heard and realized he needed to let her speak.
"I think I can solve the mystery of that page," she finally said, her voice low but full of conviction.
Peter stared at her, bewildered, wondering if his sleepless hours had distorted what he'd just heard.
"The page...?" he whispered.
"Yes, I think so," she affirmed calmly.
"Really?" he asked again, surprised, for a moment wondering if Hermione would joke about something like this.
"Yes," she repeated, with the same assurance.
Peter furrowed his brow, still trying to process it.
"Would you?" he asked, his heart pounding.
Hermione tilted her head slightly, as if she'd been waiting all night for him to ask that question.
"Only if you want me to," she replied, with a half-smile.
Peter's eyes met hers, those brown eyes that always seemed to see beyond what he tried to hide from everyone. The soft morning light streamed in through the window, bathing them in a golden glow that struck just at their faces. In that moment, Peter couldn't help but smile, though he said nothing. He simply smiled, not knowing if he really needed to say anything more.
"Maybe it's not even important," he finally said.
"We won't lose anything by trying," she replied, her tone warm but firm.
Peter nodded slowly, his mind trying to catch up as he looked at her.
"All right," he said, finally with a hint of resolution. "I'll check. I promise. If I can, I'll tell you what I can about why I'm looking into these things, and..."
He trailed off, unable to continue. Because, suddenly, Hermione Granger smiled in a way he'd never seen before. It was a broad, genuine smile that seemed to light up everything around her, and Peter couldn't help but stare, transfixed, as if that expression were something precious and fragile. Something that needed protection.
"Does solving a mystery make you that happy?" he asked, with a small laugh.
Hermione shook her head, her smile still lingering.
"Not as much as knowing you trust me," she replied, her voice still soft but with much more depth.
"I thought that went without saying," he answered.
"Parkinson."
The Dark Lord's voice echoed through the gallery. The Death Eater turned, his expression betraying none of the terror the voice of the wizard he'd sworn loyalty to instilled in him.
"My lord?"
Lord Voldemort appeared in the doorway, his expression cold and distant. He seemed angry, but restrained. Instinctively, Mr. Parkinson glanced down, searching for the snake between his legs. But her master's pet was nowhere in sight.
"I need to know what discoveries your daughter has made," he said with a false smile. "I have yet to receive any report from you... thus far."
"My Lord..." the man said, struggling not to falter.
"I trust that your firstborn remains loyal to me," the Dark Lord continued. "I trust that your entire family remains as faithful as ever... I would hate to have any cause for... suspicion."
There was a thinly veiled threat in his voice, one that quickened the Death Eater's pulse.
"You know she does, my lord," the man replied, bowing again. "Pansy is fulfilling her mission. It's not easy to get close... but she seems to have uncovered something."
"Continue," Voldemort said, his interest piqued, though he did not move from the doorway.
"It seems the professor is often accompanied by the Pevensie siblings, my lord," Parkinson reported.
The Dark Lord's expression changed ever so slightly, though it was barely perceptible in the dimly lit room. For a moment, Parkinson feared he was about to be punished.
"Interesting," Voldemort said. "Well, they are the children of one of my greatest enemies. It makes sense."
"She has looked further," Parkinson continued. "Apparently, they spent some time with Professor Kirke a few years ago. And today—today they visited the Mansion."
"The Kirke Mansion?" the Dark Lord hissed.
"Yes," he replied. "Apparently, it was a school visit—I know nothing more."
Voldemort did not respond. He stood there for a few seconds, his gaze fixed on the wizard. His head tilted slightly, fury building in his eyes. His stance grew taut, and his breathing could be heard in the silent corridor.
He turned and began to walk away from the door, only to glance back at the wizard one last time.
"Ensure that your daughter provides a more thorough report next time. I want to know everything about... the little Pevensies," he said in an icy tone. "If you do not wish for little Pansy to receive the treatment I reserve for those who betray me."
The Dark Lord disappeared into the shadows. Raphael Parkinson lowered his gaze, bowing again, unable to suppress a slight tremor in his shoulders. When he looked up again, he caught his own reflection in a nearby mirror.
And there, after months of concealing every emotion that had barricaded itself within him, the Death Eater shed a single, nearly imperceptible tear.
Not for the atrocities he had committed in those months. Not for selling everything he'd had to the Death Eaters' cause.
No. One thing alone haunted his mind.
His family.
His daughter.
Pansy Parkinson was in danger. And it was entirely his fault.