Chapter Text
Harry woke with a start. His restless mind never allowed him to fully relax, even in sleep, but something was wrong now. A sense of urgency pounded in his head, as though he needed to run somewhere at once.
It was difficult to form even one coherent thought — his memory had turned into a viscous syrup of broken fragments, none of which made sense. With a weary sigh, he rubbed his face and froze — for some reason, it surprised him that his forehead didn’t hurt.
Harry tried to cling to that flicker of awareness — why was it so important? If his forehead wasn’t hurting anymore, what did that mean?
He cautiously traced the scar above his right eyebrow with his fingers — it offered no answers.
‘Sir!’ A shadow fell over Harry.
Through narrowed eyes (where were his glasses?) he could barely make out the silhouette of a stout woman with curly ginger hair and an elegant purple felt hat.
‘Are you feeling any better?’ The woman’s deep voice brought a dull pain in his temples.
‘What happened?’ Harry thought it was of the utmost importance to know the answer to this question.
The lady chuckled: ‘That is not for you to ask me! I simply found you here, at the entrance to the Ministry of Magic — lying right on the ground! Renervate didn’t work on you, I was just thinking I’d have to get you to St Mungo’s — and then you came round on your own.’
Harry had no idea what was happening, but going to the hospital was definitely not an option.
‘Oh no, no, thank you for your concern…’ he began, getting to his feet and brushing off his knees. ‘But I’m already much better! There’s no need for a hospital.’
And then he swayed.
‘There, there, young man!’ The woman gripped his shoulders with her broad hands and decisively set him back upright. ‘You are clearly still not yourself, you can’t even stand properly. Let’s go to the fireplaces, we’ll get you some help. I’m afraid Apparition might be dangerous for you right now. I’m Gladys, by the way,’ she tried to give him a charming smile.
Harry nodded blankly. After he tried to get to his feet, the world around him began to slowly spin, as if he were wading through treacle. He could hardly follow the woman’s speech — apparently Gladys’s — but when she was distracted, he discreetly checked that his wand was still there, in an inner pocket of his robes.
Gladys was already pulling him towards the entrance to the Ministry, and something about it felt familiar to him, as if he had gone in there that way not long ago. His mind strained as he tried to remember.
‘Darling, we’ll have to squeeze up,’ she burst out laughing, dragging him into the phone box.
With one hand turning the phone dial and the other pressing Harry against the glass door of the box, Gladys patted his shoulder reassuringly so he wouldn’t worry.
‘Welcome to the Ministry of Magic. Please state your name and business,’ came a cool female voice.
‘Gladys Bulstrode, International Magical Trading Standards Body, I’m heading to the fireplaces to assist an injured person,’ the efficient lady reported briskly, and then looked at Harry expectantly.
‘Er… Dudley… Polkiss?’ Harry blurted out the first thing that came to mind. ‘I suppose I’m the injured person.’
‘Thank you,’ said the cool female voice. ‘Visitor, please take the badge and attach it to the front of your robes.’
Two square silver badges slid down the metal coin return chute. Harry barely had time to grab his when Gladys took it and, with motherly care, pinned it to his robes. Now everyone could see the inscription: ‘Dudley Polkiss. Needs help.’
‘No need to hurry, Dudley, I’m on hand if you need me,’ the woman declared brightly.
The voice from the telephone receiver informed them that they would have to go through wand registration, and then the box began to descend into the Atrium.
A confused thought pierced Harry’s mind again—that he had been here recently, and that he urgently needed to get somewhere, right here in the Ministry.
However, Gladys did not lead him to the security desk, but straight towards the gilded fireplaces, in front of which queues of wizards were standing, all wanting to leave the Ministry.
‘They will take good care of you at the hospital, Dudley, don’t doubt it. I shall ask for my friend Emilia to be sent for, she will see that everything is done properly,’ the sympathetic lady said confidentially. She looked as though she was genuinely enjoying her role as a Florence Nightingale, and as if whatever business had brought her to the Ministry, it faded into insignificance beside this truly important task.
Harry, though, clearly understood that in his helpless state he absolutely must not go anywhere near a hospital, yet some insistent thought kept him in the hall, as though drawing him into those tangled corridors.
He gathered his strength and brought Gladys’s constant stream of reassurances to a halt, taking her hands and putting on the most grateful expression he could manage.
‘Madam, honestly, I am very grateful to you,’ he began heartily. ‘I cannot tell you how pleasant it is when such a kind-hearted soul happens to be nearby,’ he tried to speak as grandly as possible so as not to offend the compassionate woman. ‘But I would by no means wish to trouble you, and I can’t go to St Mungo’s — you see… I’ve been afraid of Healers since I was a child. Yes! So, I can’t bring myself to overcome it, and I think I’ll be on my way…’
Gladys once again grabbed him by the shoulders and looked at him with a sympathetic gaze.
‘Poor boy! Such excellent manners — it’s rare to come across a gentleman like you in your generation these days. Please, just call me Gladys — there’s no need for formality. I understand you perfectly, dear — my nephew Donovan is exactly the same! I’m forever having to nurse the poor thing at home. Now then, let me get you back to your parents, dear — how may I reach them?’
‘I… I’m an orphan, madam,’ Harry answered awkwardly.
Gladys’s eyes widened, and she seemed to feel an even deeper sympathy for him at once. ‘An orphan as well…’ she murmured to herself. And then, in a louder voice:
‘Oh, dear… please accept my condolences. Life is so unfair…’
Gladys worriedly bit her lip — she was running out of options. And then her face lit up as she found a solution:
‘Then come along — at least let me take you to the Leaky Cauldron! You most certainly need a hot meal. You’ll feel much better straight away, you’ll see! Sometimes all it takes for a full recovery is a hot meal!’
And at that point, Harry could no longer resist, as it happened to be their turn to use the fireplace.
‘Go on, dear, you go first,’ Gladys instructed and handed him a bowl of Floo powder.
Taking a pinch, Harry stepped hesitantly into the fireplace, but, deciding he had nothing to lose, he said loudly and clearly, ‘The Leaky Cauldron.’
Green tongues of flame swept over him from head to toe, and he tumbled out awkwardly on the other side of the fireplace grate. He barely managed to step aside in time to avoid Gladys bumping into him as she came out after him, though far more gracefully.
The bar, at first glance, looked much the same as ever, yet something nagged at the back of his mind, as though something here was not quite right. It was difficult for Harry to make anything out without his glasses, but it felt as though he were in a dream, when everything around seemed the same as always, yet maybe the tables were narrower, or the customers’ robes longer, and then everything felt wrong.
Gladys led him to a table in the corner of the bar, chatting all the while that these were her favourite seats, and that she always chose them for her little gatherings with friends — and, for no particular reason, she began to list them all: Emilia, whom he already knew of, Bernice the magizoologist, and her disagreeable cousin Violetta.
‘Whenever Violetta and I meet, we invariably end up quarrelling! Honestly, I don’t know why I still have anything to do with that wretched creature… But that’s neither here nor there, Dudley! Such a lovely name, my dear, truly. I seem to recall Emilia’s grandson being called Dudley… or Douglas?… I’m afraid it escapes me. Now do sit down, dear, don’t be shy…’ — and yet again, instead of giving Harry the chance to sit, the lady firmly pulled out an oak chair and settled the boy into it.
The barman came up to them, and only then did it begin to dawn on Harry that something was decidedly amiss — instead of old Tom, a solid-looking man in an apron over a stained waistcoat had approached their table.
‘Tom! We’ve got an urgent matter here,’ Gladys began, taking off her suede gloves, which matched her hat. ‘Please bring this young man a hotpot, and some ham sandwiches for me. And tea, of course — we need to warm the poor boy up. Ah yes — and do bring me today’s Daily Prophet… I didn’t get a chance to read it this morning, I was in rather a hurry to work—’
Gladys’s voice gradually faded, as though sinking underwater, leaving Harry alone with his anxiety. Once he was no longer being dragged from place to place and finally had a chance to catch his breath, he was able to admit to himself that he had no idea what was going on.
Some desperate part of his mind still urged him back towards the Ministry — yet not a single memory surfaced of why he needed to be there, or, more than that, what on earth had brought him there in the first place, outside the Ministry entrance where he had originally come to himself.
He, come to think of it, could not remember many things — for example, the date, or what he had last been doing before coming round on the ground by the telephone box.
Suddenly, something inside him went cold.
Harry cast a wary glance at the red-haired lady sitting opposite him, who was still chatting animatedly with the barman. What did he actually know about her? What if this witch was not who she claimed to be — had in fact wiped his memory, and was now lying to Harry about having found him in the street? Or what if she was actually a Death Eater — and had kidnapped him, pretending to be a compassionate old lady?
Gladys caught his gaze and gave him a friendly smile.
‘How are you feeling, Dudley? You look rather pale,’ she said, her tone concerned. ‘Tom’s just about to bring you a hotpot — and you’ll feel better at once, you’ll see!’
Harry forced a reassuring smile and nodded in agreement: ‘Yes, thank you very much for your kindness, madam — I don’t know what I would have done without your help.’ He decided that, if she really was a Death Eater, it would be best not to show that he had seen through her deception.
But Gladys did not notice any change in her charge. On the contrary, thinking that a pleasant conversation was just the thing to pass the time while waiting for lunch, she decided to enquire after Harry’s health.
‘Whatever happened to you? You must have fainted, I take it? Is this something that happens to you often?’ she asked kindly.
Harry wondered if this was some sort of cunning plan to test what he remembered after Obliviate. Deciding to bluff to the end (as the truth might be used by Gladys to her advantage), he started to spin a story:
‘No, I wouldn’t say so, madam. I can’t even quite understand how it happened…’ It irritated him that he couldn’t read her expression. Maybe she was mocking his lie? ‘It seems this week has been rather eventful, perhaps I’ve just been a bit too flustered—’
‘Nerves! I thought as much,’ the woman cut in, looking worried. ‘You strike me as a very sensitive young man, it’s quite typical of your kind. My nephew Donovan, again… yes, you are very much alike…’
Gladys clearly enjoyed bringing examples from her own circle into every situation in order to show how well-informed she was on all matters. Harry’s state of health had greatly interested her, and she was already eager to recount the story to her friends.
The boy, however, was worried for a completely different reason, trying to figure out whether Gladys was just a very good actress or truly had no idea about the gaps in his memory.
What troubled Harry most was how vulnerable he was because of his eyesight. If he were attacked, he would not even be able to fight back. It was surprising that Gladys herself chose to bring it up:
‘And you’re squinting quite a lot as well. Have you perhaps hit your head?’
‘I’ve lost my glasses somewhere,’ Harry replied reluctantly. ‘Perhaps they broke when I blacked out.’
The lady suddenly slapped the table and stared intently at the boy.
‘How could I have not noticed! Though I didn’t see any glasses when I found you in the street. We shall sort that out now. I’m rather good at Transfiguration, you know.’
She peered into her velvet handbag, plunged her hand deep inside and drew out a delicate pair of reading glasses — plainly meant for a lady. It was the first time Harry had seen such magic — a handbag used like a bottomless bag. However, he did not dare to ask, already unnerved by Gladys’s determined manner.
She, meanwhile, made quite a performance of it, clasping the glasses in her left hand and producing a long wand from the folds of her splendid robes with her right (Harry, as might be expected, tensed, bracing for a curse) and began to work magic on the glasses so that they would take on a shape suitable for a young gentleman. After asking Harry about his eyesight, she even went so far as to precisely adjust the lenses, after which, satisfied with herself, she handed the glasses to the boy.
Harry, hardly believing his luck, could only put the glasses on in silence, and look around in astonishment, now noticing far more clearly all the differences from the Leaky Cauldron as he knew it, and this rather respectable place. Witches and wizards sat in different corners, conversing about all manner of things, all dressed somewhat oddly, though Harry had grown used to not questioning wizarding fashion.
Madam Bulstrode, for her part, was the most elegantly dressed person in the establishment. Towering over the others thanks to her considerable height and solid build, she inspired a certain awe — an impression reinforced by her heavy jewellery, and the fine detailing of her robes.
Now that her broad, smiling face was before him, Harry somehow faltered. It was difficult to go on constructing theories about a hidden scheme, which this witch was supposedly plotting against him, when she was watching him with such eager enthusiasm, clearly expecting admiration for her gift. Muttering his thanks in a daze, he even grew angry with himself, for how often had a friendly face deceived him in the past. The image of stern Alastor Moody came to mind. Barty Crouch Jr., in his guise, had not acted the kindly sort, of course, but he had pretended to be a friend — and that had nearly cost Harry his life. But was he now to doubt every kind intention from a stranger?
At that very moment, when the boy was still trying to find the right words to thank Gladys properly and, if possible, sincerely, the barman brought their food over on a tray. And just like that, an appetisingly fragrant hotpot was set before Harry, with a thin wisp of steam rising from it.
Putting all his worries aside, Harry could admit that he was, in fact, utterly starving. It felt as though he had used a great deal of magic in one go, and now his body was craving to restore that energy. However, he could not recall what magic had brought him to such a state.
He could only hope that poisoning him was not part of his “saviour’s” plans. That, truly, would have been a major disappointment — at that moment he could not imagine refusing a hot meal, even out of self-preservation. Gladys might have been talking the barman round while he was not looking, but what could Harry do about it? All that remained was to accept his fate. Seeing no way out, and even feeling a kind of morbid thrill, he took the first bite.
And Merlin, what a hotpot it was! It felt as though the risk of poisoning had been worth it for this moment.
Of course, there was nothing special about the food, but his body, terribly worn out after who knew what, began to recover. At the same time, it was as though a voice of reason was stirring in Harry. While he was wasting time on paranoia, he ought to have been thinking about the facts. Yes, he had to admit it was a rather suspicious coincidence to lose his memory and immediately meet Gladys. But apart from that, he had no other evidence that she had any ill intent towards him. Rather the opposite — she had brought him to a warm place, fed him and given him glasses — where was the deceit in that? He had already counted three arguments against one. Without his memories he remained an easy target, so it was necessary to stay on his guard — but not to jump to conclusions too soon.
The kind-hearted lady was delighted by the way Harry tucked into his meal with obvious enjoyment.
‘I told you! It’s food — food itself that has the strongest healing properties! I was so concerned for you, my dear. How fortunate it is that I was the one to find you. I don’t usually go into Muggle districts, you see, it’s rather improper… But I’ll tell you a secret,’ she lowered her voice, ‘I’ve always been curious about how their world works…’ She let the pause linger, so that Harry could fully grasp the unthinkable nature of her secret interest.
Harry raised his eyebrows in interest.
‘Yes, yes!’ Gladys let out a shy laugh. ‘Sometimes I go in for a bit of an adventure — I Apparate into Muggle London, and go down to work through the visitors’ entrance. My husband, of course, gives me a telling-off if he finds out, especially given how dangerous things are there at the moment… With this whole war of theirs… But now he can’t say anything, since I found you! And imagine if I weren’t there, and some Muggle had stumbled upon you! That would have been dreadful.’ The rosy glow in her cheeks faded slightly even at the thought of such a turn of events.
Harry’s mind, however, caught on the mention of war. Of course, there were many important things he did not remember, but he had a distinct feeling that Britain was not involved in any such conflict, that would make it dangerous to be out on the streets of London. Apparently, Gladys knew much less about the Muggle world than she pretended. Which, in truth, was hardly surprising for a lady of her standing — after all, the Bulstrode name belonged to an old pure-blood family. Gladys was likely related to his sullen Slytherin classmate, Millicent Bulstrode. He could even imagine them at family gatherings — they would make quite a comical sight: the taciturn, ever-discontented Millicent Bulstrode and the lively, talkative Gladys. However, Harry decided not to ask her about any family connection, so as not to call attention to his identity.
It was only now that the realisation hit him — Gladys had not once shown that she knew who he was.
What was more, no one in the crowd at the Ministry, not even here in the Leaky Cauldron, had come up to him or paid any attention to his scar.
Yes, of course, he understood that without his distinctive glasses he was not as noticeable, but not so much that not a single person would recognize the famous Harry Potter walking about the city in broad daylight. Not that he wanted to be recognised — quite the opposite, but it was strange, wasn’t it? Could there be something wrong with his face?
Harry found himself reaching up to rub his scar. Gladys did not fail to notice this and cast him a furtive, inquisitive glance.
‘My dear…’ she began cautiously. It was clear that she was not quite sure how to approach the matter. ‘I hesitated to ask, in case it might be a sensitive subject for you… But a scar on your face, especially one of such an unusual shape…’ the lady reached towards his face and gently brushed aside the fringe above the mark — ‘there must be some story behind it, must there not?’
Harry flinched.
‘Oh! I am so sorry!’ Gladys drew back her hand in embarrassment. ‘You have every right to be cross with me for my thoughtlessness, Dudley, I can be quite unpardonably forward at times, it is this ever-present curiosity of mine! Violetta does say that my nosiness is my greatest failing—and I fear she is right—’
But that was not what unsettled Harry at all. He even began to wonder whether he had dismissed the idea that he was dreaming too soon. So far, each thing that had happened to him was stranger than the one before. Starting from his hazy awakening beside the Ministry telephone box and ending with the fact that no one around seemed to recognise him, it all felt somehow unnatural. As though a mind coming to life had quickly thrown together a world in rough strokes in which Harry was now trying to live by familiar rules.
Still, he was expected to answer, and Harry decided to play along.
‘You did not offend me in the slightest, madam. But there is little I can tell you — the truth is, I don’t even know how I got this scar.’ It even amused Harry how much absurdity he was able to get away with. ‘I was told I have had it since early childhood, from some kind of accident, but I have no memory of it at all — and there is no one left to ask…’
Gladys looked intrigued. Harry’s assurances seemed to brush away her self-critical impulses. She leaned in closer, so that no one could overhear what she was about to say:
‘You may think I am talking utter nonsense,’ she whispered, ‘but have you not considered that it may be precisely because of that accident that you lost the memory? I heard this theory — I’m ashamed to say — from Muggles, but there must be something in it! Due to nervous exhaustion, whole years may vanish from memory in sensitive individuals, especially children — never mind mere events!’
Could it be that she was speaking of what had in fact happened to him? Was she trying to hint at something?
An image rose in his mind — a long, dark corridor with no windows. Harry felt an urge to reach out — it seemed as though something was calling to him from deep within the corridor. ‘The Department of Mysteries,’ flashed through Harry’s mind. But, surprisingly, the thought told him nothing — he had never heard of such a place.
Swooping down, a ginger owl landed on their table with a letter tied to its leg.
Gladys looked flustered. ‘Merlin! Dudley, I am afraid it is from a colleague of mine — I promised to stand in for her at work, but of course, I ended up having more important things to deal with,’ she hurriedly began to explain, untying the letter as she spoke. ‘She will, of course, understand once I explain.’ With deft fingers she unfolded the letter and ran her eyes over the text with concern, biting her lip.
‘I must hurry away, my dear,’ she said, looking most regretful. ‘They are absolutely at a loss without me — you see, I’m being called away right in the middle of lunch. But we simply must meet again! I cannot leave you alone in such a state — where will you go from here?’
‘I am not sure yet, madam…’
‘But where is your home?’
‘I… ran away from home,’ Harry lied.
‘It is settled!’ the lady exclaimed, jumping up and snapping her fingers. ‘I shall not abandon such a polite young man in need. Misfortunes happen to all of us, the important thing is to have a kind acquaintance nearby, and I shall be that acquaintance for you. Tom!’ she called again, snapping her fingers at the barman. ‘Arrange a comfortable room for this young man for one night.’
‘I shall come this evening and check how you are settled in,’ she said to Harry in a confidential tone, as she took Galleons out of her purse.
But the boy could not accept such generosity.
He jumped up as well and tried to reason with his benefactress:
‘Madam, please! None of this is necessary — I’m quite capable of sorting things out myself, you’ve already been most kind—’ but his protest was cut off.
Gladys gently laid her delicate hand on his forearm, and met his eyes with a searching, earnest look:
‘Dear Dudley! My grandson is of the same age as yourself, and I cannot possibly find a young gentleman on a Muggle street without making sure that he is properly taken care of! After such a faint, you must recover, rest in bed, and only after that turn to other matters — and do not argue, it is simply not the done thing.
Harry fell silent, disarmed.
Seeing that she had left the boy with nothing to say, Gladys smiled with satisfaction and prepared to leave. After giving the owl a piece of her sandwich, which she had not managed to finish, and slipping on her gloves, she tossed her curls, said her goodbyes, and stepped into the green flame, leaving Harry sitting alone at the table.
Once again, the young barman came over, having somehow replaced old Tom on duty, and brought a squat teapot, a milk jug, and a fresh newspaper. At Harry’s confused glance, he shrugged, explaining that it had already been paid for, and reminded him to come back later about the room.
A newspaper appeared in front of Harry.
At first, he paid it no attention, pouring himself some tea and distracted by his own worries about Gladys’s generosity, but then something on the front page drew his eye.
‘WHERE IS MINISTER BOITEAU? — Grindelwald has kidnapped the French Minister’
Harry spluttered and quickly set down his teacup.
Snatching up the newspaper, he reread the headline once more. His gaze dropped lower:
‘CANTERBURY UNDER ATTACK — Grindelwald burns our homes while the Ministers drink tea in their offices’
‘STRANGERS IN THE NIGHT — numerous witnesses report suspicious individuals seen in the vicinity of Cornwall’
The boy checked the date — and indeed, he had been given a newspaper dated 6 June 1942. An absurd situation — where on earth had the barman even got it? He probably didn’t want to waste a fresh newspaper on some nameless boy, and just handed him kindling for the fireplace instead.
Harry cast a suspicious glance at the young man behind the bar, and froze — from this angle he could make out that this ‘Tom’ had a nose identical to that of the real landlord of the Leaky Cauldron. They must be related — strange that it had not occurred to Harry sooner. Of course, many people do name their children after themselves, but Harry doubted that the name Tom was quite so pleasing to be passed down to one’s descendants.
Another well-known Tom came to mind, who would probably have agreed with him, but not before cursing him for the disrespect. Tom Riddle had also been named after his father — and he hated the name he had inherited so much that he had even invented a completely ridiculous alias.
And this newspaper — he looked again at the useless piece of paper in his hands — must be his age. Harry began a quick mental calculation. But no, that was not right, Voldemort was older still: if the Chamber of Secrets was opened for the second time in 1992, then exactly fifty years earlier, in 1942, Tom Riddle first sent the Basilisk out to hunt. And at the end of the school year, in 1943, that monster killed Myrtle Warren, a Muggle-born girl.
It was remarkable how many useless facts his memory held, when he could not remember what mattered most — what year it was, and how he had ended up in this situation.
He flipped through the newspaper. Aside from the bold headlines on the front page, the rest contained fairly ordinary news. Complaints about cauldrons, some unimpressive journalistic investigations, and the standings of the local Quidditch league. Only the society column in the forties looked far less scandalous than nowadays, and otherwise, life in the wizarding world seemed much the same.
Over tea, Harry sketched out a rough plan of what to do next. His first priority was to work out how dangerous his situation was, and somehow get hold of at least one book on how to reverse an Obliviate spell.
He was haunted by the thought that if someone had put this spell on him, and that person was not Gladys, then any stranger might be a threat. It was entirely possible that the mysterious caster would want to check that his spell had worked as intended, and then Harry would need to be vigilant. The boy carefully scanned the bar.
Tom, the barman, caught his eye and beckoned him over, setting aside the cloth he was using to polish bottles. When Harry came over, the barman muttered something, and then placed a few coins and a room key on the counter.
‘Three Galleons in change. Madam Bulstrode overestimated our service. Are you taking it?’ — it was clear what answer he secretly hoped for.
But Harry could not pass up the opportunity. He and Tom held each other’s gaze, each understanding that the other did not want to give up the money, and then Harry grabbed the coins and the key and headed towards the stairs, already thanking the barman on the way and assuring him that there was no need to see him off.
The barman gave a sniff and carried on polishing bottles.
***
Harry easily found the right room, quickly orienting himself in the corridors. The room looked almost the same as the room he had stayed in the summer before his third year, only a bit plainer, perhaps.
The first thing the boy did was go into the small bathroom to check his reflection. The mirror, as usual, began to tease him about his messy hair, but Harry paid it no mind. The main question — whether anything had happened to his face — was resolved. His face had not changed in the slightest, remaining exactly as he remembered it. Perhaps he really was paler than usual, which was hardly surprising given the circumstances. The only thing that did not fit the picture was the glasses Gladys had conjured. Unlike his usual round glasses, these had a hexagonal frame, rounded at the top. Harry was not sure how to react to this change in appearance, but it was the least of his concerns. The scar still ran in a jagged line above his right eyebrow, though it might have faded a little. This troubled him, and he tried to strain his memory to recall why.
Harry closed his eyes and tried to focus on the sensations in his scar. It seemed to him that there had to be something there, he even thought he felt a phantom dull ache, but it was merely a memory. “Something, at least,” the boy tried to reassure himself, but in truth, his situation was frightening.
There were no proper words to describe the feeling he had. It was a physical cold — when he tried to reach for something in his memory, but there was only emptiness. His memory now looked like a torn blanket — in its weightless darkness, threads of memories sometimes flickered, but on their own, they made no sense. He knew the concepts, his thoughts were based on some kind of structure, but when he tried to recall something specific, he fell into a void.
He was here alone, with no one he knew and no support. He knew who he was, but people did not recognise him. He knew he had a past — images, names, and even dates surfaced in his mind, but they meant nothing.
He felt that his memory needed waking, as if it were sleeping somewhere beyond the haze that covered his thoughts. But when he tried to look deeper within himself, absolute nothingness stared back at him.
Someone might have wiped his memory and blended into the passers-by, and Harry would never know. The culprit might be right on his heels, but Harry would not be able to pick him out from all the other strangers. That was the worst of it, even things that should have been familiar were losing their meaning before his eyes. The walls of the Leaky Cauldron, the pub through which Harry had once first entered the wizarding world, suddenly felt strange. The clothes of the wizards around him looked as though they had been pulled straight from a grandmother’s trunk — he did not remember people dressing like that. Even the room he was standing in now looked almost identical to the image that shimmered in his memory, but it was that very “almost” that was so exhausting. Harry was certain of nothing, everything was “almost” familiar, but in the end, completely different.
And just like that, a man confident in himself and in his truth fell apart when everything he knew so well was taken away from him. He could rely only on his senses and the ghosts of the past in his mind, without trusting even himself. His mind was empty, his soul untouched, no attachments, no love, no hatred. A blank slate of a man.
Harry was no stranger to nightmares, he remembered that. Each new year tested him, bringing the threshold of normality lower and lower. But if he was asleep, if this truly was nothing but a hostile dream, he wanted to wake up very, very badly.
Opening his eyes, Harry looked himself over again. No matter how empty he felt inside, physically, he very much existed, and therefore could find a solution to the puzzle of his own mind.
The answers were there, he just needed to be in the right place at the right time to find them. And to do that, he needed to keep moving — he clearly would not find the truth in his room at the Leaky Cauldron. Right behind the bar was the entrance to Diagon Alley — that was the place to start.
It took Harry only two minutes to hurry down the stairs and get out into the pub’s back yard. His hands trembled — he had never in his life wanted to get into a bookshop so badly.
On the way to Flourish and Blotts, he had to dodge strangers — for some reason his steps were uneven, as if he were walking in someone else’s shoes. The feeling of unnaturalness he had first experienced at the Leaky Cauldron returned — the familiar street suddenly seemed to shift by a couple of degrees, leaving gaps where there should have been supports.
Whether it was the chipped cobblestones, or the smells drifting from open stalls, or the strange voices of shopkeepers calling out to look at their goods — something felt out of place in the familiar scene and made him feel like a foreigner in places he knew by heart.
Harry stumbled over the threshold and found himself in a bustling, dim interior that instantly swallowed him up. The cramped space was lined with shelves reaching up to the ceiling, broken up by narrow aisles and filled with books on every imaginable subject. “Hermione’s favourite shop,” flashed through Harry’s mind. Anxiety struck him again — how could it be that only now had he thought of his best friend? What was happening to him?
Following the scattered signs, he ended up at a display of mental magic at the back of the shop, where both massive tomes and thin booklets rested. Harry was looking for something within his price range, his nose buried in the books, skimming them for the most promising titles. ‘Detecting Mental Curses’ sounded quite straightforward, but it offered no practical guidance on breaking such spells — the very thing he needed. ‘A Wizard Without a Past’ seemed too depressing a title to Harry, and the book ‘How to Creatively Torment Your Relatives’ would have been useful for life with the Dursleys, but was of no use to him now. Eventually, Harry settled on a heavy tome with the mysterious title ‘The Visible Invisible’, whose contents turned out to be far more useful than it had seemed at first glance.
The book was written by Waldrich Markovich, a man of extraordinary life, who had fallen victim to a ritual gone wrong, as a result of which he came to believe that he was his own son. He stayed in the Janus Thickey Ward for ten years, after which he recovered suddenly — when the Healers had not expected any progress. After his discharge, Waldrich claimed that in truth he had spent all that time fighting mental battles within his own mind, and that he had been able to remember who he was because he had deciphered the secrets of the mind. Once outside the hospital, he devoted himself to the study of mental magic and how to counter it, and presented the results of his research in this extensive volume.
Harry looked at the enormous book in his hands as if it were his salvation.
Thanks to the fact that the respectable Madame Bulstrode, besides her kindness, was also rather wasteful, he still had enough money left for another book.
Harry began to wander between the shelves, his eyes drifting idly from spine to spine. He was amused by the titles in the occult section, and lingered there. A certain kind of wizard could find a treatise here for almost any magical need, especially if those needs concerned fate, providence, or contact with spirits. On one shelf sat a booklet with practical advice on fortune-telling, alongside a collection of polemical articles with the offensive title ‘Fortune-telling Killed My Auntie’. On other shelves, various absurd methods of fortune-telling competed to see which was better, and on a third, readers were offered ‘effective’ rituals for communicating with deceased relatives through incense. On the fourth shelf, the ‘highly useful’ treatises on dream divination were waiting for a buyer, alongside explanations of which knitted sock patterns best enable contact with the dead during sleep, and many other astonishing publications. Harry could not even imagine who would be interested in buying such books — it was obvious that there was nothing useful in them to read. However, his amusement faded when he came across a book with an ominous title: ‘Trapped in a Lucid Dream’.
It seemed to him that the bustling shop had suddenly fallen silent.
It was worth mentioning again that Harry had more than once considered the theory that everything happening to him was no more than a dream. Moreover, this idea had visited him so often that the book in front of him could even have been his subconscious trying to give him a sign — or at least, that was what he thought. Harry did not believe in coincidences — in his life, it was precisely such accidents that often played a crucial role. And now, within arm’s reach, could lie the answers to his questions, sewn with thread and hidden beneath the spine.
The decision to take this book with him was one of the easiest of his life.
Having paid for his purchases, he once again stepped out onto the busy street — and hurried back to his room. The books in his hands felt like the most precious load — literally a treasure. Absorbed in his worries, he did not notice how a scowling old man with wild grey hair suddenly bumped into him — though, to be fair, the old fellow himself had been rushing without looking where he was going. The stranger recoiled and glared at the boy.
‘Why on earth are you dressed so oddly?’ he exclaimed.
Harry glanced down at his robe, the edges of his jeans and worn trainers showing beneath it, and stared back. Yes, he had noticed that nobody else was wearing Muggle clothes, but that was hardly any reason to accuse him of having bad taste. However, subconsciously, he felt that that was not the point at all.
The boy faltered. Under normal circumstances, he would not have failed to snap back with something sharp, but now, disturbed by his discoveries in the bookshop, the question caught him off guard.
‘Sorry… I have to go,’ he only managed to throw out, and he hurried on, wanting solitude as soon as possible, where no chance passer-by could bother him. The incident would not leave his mind; he absently considered how strange it really was that there was not a single person in ordinary clothes on this street. Almost everyone he passed wore hats and robes, too covered for the time of year.
***
In his room, he laid the books out on his writing desk and now fixed his gaze on them. Having found them in the bookshop, he had been glad to be one step closer to a solution to his trouble, but now he was afraid to look into them and find the answers. What if there was no escape from his situation?
No, that sort of mindset would lead him nowhere. There was always a way out, you just sometimes needed a little ingenuity and a little persistence. Opening the book on mental magic, he resolutely set about reading.
It turned out that memory, in wizards’ perception, looked like a liquid. They were able to manipulate this substance, reshaping and examining it from every angle, but it was too easy to damage. Harry recalled that he already knew this: when he had once seen Dumbledore’s memories in the Pensieve, they had appeared to be somewhere between a liquid and a gas.
If memory was water, the Obliviate spell was a barrier in its way. It did not drain the source of memories, but locked it away so deeply in the mind, that the occasional drops of past echoes that seeped through the barrier could not reveal the full picture of what had been lost.
But could one try to ‘break through the dam’? It all depended on the skill of the wizard who had cast the spell in the first place. Conditions could also play a role — if the spell had been placed in haste or under unfavourable circumstances, there might have been gaps left in the barrier, and these were exactly what one was supposed to work with.
According to this theory, the images that appeared in a relaxed state could be the key to regaining awareness. It was explained by the idea that memories themselves did not want to remain imprisoned, and, like water, tried to break free. Throughout the day, the wizard’s mental space was flooded with other streams of new knowledge he kept acquiring after Obliviate. To catch the right current in this whirlpool, it was necessary to bring the mind into a state of stillness, to focus on sensations — meditation was recommended for this — and search for a breach.
The author assured the reader that this was an immensely difficult task. It was no wonder it had taken him ten long years to uncover the truth of who he was within his own mind. Once a breach had been found, it had to be widened, inch by inch, until the flow of memory did the rest for you.
But one of the chief dangers, for which many were unprepared, lay in a single question: ‘Do you truly want to know what has been forgotten?’ The real mental struggle began as blinding images of the past washed over the wizard, leaving him unsure of what to do with them. The truth demanded a response, but a person was often buried beneath the vivid images of the past, too massive to comprehend so easily. An attempt to ‘break through the dam’, figuratively speaking, could drive the wizard further into madness than before, simply because the human mind was not designed to process such volumes of knowledge all at once.
Harry snapped the book shut.
He understood perfectly what the author was getting at. The whole theory of reclaiming lost memories was based on the assumption that the caster’s work had been poorly done. But what if the one who had cast the spell on Harry knew exactly what they were doing? Then it was only the circumstances he could rely on — if time had been pressing or the magical environment unstable, it was possible that mistakes had been made unintentionally. If not, then there was no way back.
And what practical advice was that supposed to be? Meditation? Of course, there were plenty of finer points and details left in the book, but Harry knew how to grasp the essence. If he had to search for his memories through meditation, it would take an eternity, no wonder Waldrich had spent ten years doing it. What set him apart from Mr. Markovich was that no one had forced Waldrich to leave his comfortable hospital bed all that time, while Harry’s payment for the room would run out the very next morning, and he would have to move on somewhere, without money or a place to stay. He needed answers, and quickly.
Putting the first book aside, he took up the manual on lucid dreaming. The cloth in which it was wrapped felt soft to the touch. The gold embossing on the cover promised some kind of secret knowledge.
Harry did not want to be disappointed again — but what else was left for him? Opening the book, he was struck by the author’s convoluted style, which seemed to sit somewhere between mental magic and esotericism. ‘Hermione would probably have a fit if she saw what I was reading,’ flashed through the boy’s mind again, and he felt despair — thoughts of the past slipped in and out so easily. He had only thought of her in the bookshop — and had immediately forgotten. What made him so sure that what he was reading now would not be lost in his memory?
He clutched the book and tried to make sense of the author’s approach. Despite being completely unfamiliar with esoteric teachings, Harry grasped it rather quickly — he suddenly realised that everything written there applied to his situation, as if the book had been written about him.
Lucid dreaming, according to the book, was an extraordinary state of mind during sleep, in which a person was aware that they were in a dream, and could, to some extent, control its content.
A wizard could live through an ordinary day, and then realise that none of it had been real, as in fact he had been sound asleep in his bed the whole time. And afterwards, he might find that he did not know how to escape the dream.
These descriptions sent shivers down Harry’s spine.
‘How can you tell that your reality is an illusion?’ the book asked. It then provided the answer:
‘If you have already asked yourself that question, it is a clear warning sign that something is wrong. Perhaps you have noticed people behaving oddly? These are not people, but your projections. You have entered a world of shadows — everything in it operates by different laws. These projections are the ‘memory of the world’ — echoes of those who once lived.
Does it not seem to you that time in your dream has slowed? Perhaps you even see people from the past, or acting as though they are in the past? These are all signs that you have stepped beyond the boundaries of our reality. Perhaps people you know say that they do not recognise you? Or do strangers believe you are their family?
If you find yourself in a world without any backstory, this also indicates that you are being governed by dream processes. Have you ended up somewhere without being able to recall how you got there? Can you not remember your past? You do not have one — the dream creates concepts and then immediately forgets them, so that you are unable to remember your real self.
Pay attention to locations — if you find yourself in a place that combines what is familiar and what is not, it is almost certainly your mind playing a cruel trick on you, and trying to disorient you so that you cannot become self-aware.
But congratulations — you are already halfway to salvation! Let’s get out of here.’
The book then offered a list of experiments to carry out in order to test the limits of the dream and trigger awakening.
First of all, the author emphasised how important it was to follow the main safety rule within lucid dreaming — it was essential to ‘play along’ with the characters. It was strictly forbidden to provoke the projections or attempt to prove that it was a dream — this could destabilise it. ‘We do not know,’ the book warned, ‘how the shadows might respond to such interaction — they may become aggressive, attack you, or imprison you so that you cannot escape the dream.’ Revealing one’s awareness was like lighting a lantern in a forest full of predators.
Therefore, to explore a hostile environment, a wizard had to be cautious and follow the dream’s lead until it was no longer safe for them. Dream-exit techniques had to be performed either in isolation or with the utmost care, so that the projections would not realise what they were doing.
The techniques could be practised in any order:
‘1) A name is the most powerful magic within a dream. If those around you do not know your name, try giving it to them, so that someone calls you the way people did in real life. A ‘shock of recognition’ may occur, and you will return to wakefulness. However, be cautious — do not reveal your full name, until you are confident that you are in complete safety. A hostile projection might use it to conduct a ritual.
2) Inspect your body — is everything as it should be? Does anything stand out from the usual picture? Look in the mirror — does nothing seem off in your reflection? It may look almost the same as before, but if even one small detail seems unfamiliar, that is already a cause for concern. Examine this territory, recall how it looked before you were trapped in the dream. This could become the key to your salvation.
3) Try to fall asleep. Yes, that’s right, try to fall asleep inside the dream — it is a radical solution, but it may help. The mind recognises: ‘Sleep — the completion of a cycle.’ It might interpret your falling asleep as a sign to end this suffering and let you out of the dream. But do not be caught in the trap of false awakening (chapter 3). It may seem that you have finally got up and resumed your day in the real world, whereas in truth you have only fallen into a deeper layer of reality. In such a case, do not give up — continue to search for an exit.
4) Resort to divination. The most objective of the sciences may help in releasing you from the bonds of lucid dreaming. Here, the principle of invoking the ‘Objective Order’ comes into play. Try tarot divination, reading tea leaves, or alternative methods of predicting reality (chapter 4). The dream has no power over Truth — thus, when a wizard draws a card, he compels magic to give him an objective answer. The dream may not withstand such a powerful intrusion and release you. If this does not happen, look closely at the sign — the world is pointing you towards the answers you seek.’
The list went on and on, but Harry put the book aside. He needed a moment to process what he had just read. He sifted through all the events of the past day when the oddness of his surroundings had disconcerted him so much that he had involuntarily wondered whether he was dreaming. The facts fit together — everything that seemed unnatural could so easily be explained by him being in a dream!
And Harry was even willing to overlook the book’s strange pompousness and its praise of divination practices offered here as an effective solution to the problem. There were so many extraordinary things in the world, and now was not the time to play the sceptic. Moreover, if he was asleep, then this book too was merely a product of his imagination, a hint from his subconscious on how to wake up.
He was trembling all over with nervous excitement — what a relief it would be if the explanation were that simple! Far more preferable than the second option, that his memory had in fact been erased, and that he was now reading the notes of a madman.
But it was easy enough to check — all he had to do was follow the simple techniques from the book, and he would be free at once.
At the back of his mind, a quiet question stirred: ‘What if not?’
Not giving himself time to hesitate, the boy decided to proceed straight to the most radical solution to the problem. Going to sleep would be the easiest, but he needed to hurry. Unsure how much time remained before Gladys’s return, he hastened to prepare for sleep and slip into bed.
Falling asleep within a dream was dangerous, as it could place too great a strain on the mind. If the dream did not end, Harry would be faced with a false awakening, and worse still, he might forget that he had been in a lucid dream. It was a risk he had to take without any safety net — even the books left on the desk might vanish or alter their contents, and he would have to go through it all again.
Sleep would not come — endless guesses, theories, and questions kept him awake. He needed to calm his mind — and Harry let out a faint, incredulous chuckle. Perhaps now was the perfect moment to combine and try both approaches at once, meditation might help him get to sleep.
Harry knew in principle how it was done — he had heard of breathing techniques. The problem was that he had never tried anything like it before, and it seemed as much of a joke as the idea of tarot reading. But if he meant to get out of this lucid dream, he would have to approach it properly.
‘Breathe in — breathe out’
Behind his closed eyes, Harry saw drifting patches of colour.
His chest expanded. Air filled it and then left again. Harry tried to focus on it.
‘Breathe in — breathe out’
The soft sheet was cold to the touch; the Leaky Cauldron’s service did not include warming charms.
‘Breathe in — breathe out’
Lilac shadows ran in diagonal lines from the wall torches. Hollow footsteps echoed in the corridor’s silence — someone was walking into the dark. That someone was Harry, it seemed.
He made his way towards the door at the end of the corridor — but it seemed to be drifting further and further away. He quickened his pace — the door was beckoning him, no, literally demanding he come closer.
Suddenly the ground shook. Pounding, a crash, the screech of metal on the floor. The walls seemed to stretch — and at once Harry was in a vast hall of artefacts. Clocks stood, hung, and lay on every surface, all running out of sync. People rushed about him, unseen — he could only hear them. A spell whizzed just by his ear. He had found himself in the middle of a battle — and Harry had no idea what was happening, but it seemed to him that he was losing.
An invisible force sent a glass cabinet crashing over beside him, and the artefacts began to spill and roll over each other. Harry crouched down and picked one of them up — a Time-Turner. The hourglass spun endlessly, as though someone kept setting it going over and over again. Harry pinned it with his finger to stop it turning. The sand froze.
A loud knock rang out through the suddenly deserted hall, and Harry opened his eyes.
It was indeed a knock — someone was politely yet insistently trying to wake him. Before he could even grasp what it meant that he had woken up in the same room where he had fallen asleep, he hastily put on his glasses and hurried to answer the door.
At the doorway stood Tom, the barman, with a faintly disgruntled look, which seemed to be his signature expression, and slightly behind him stood a radiant Gladys.
‘How pleased I am that you got some sleep, Dudley!’ and she genuinely looked very pleased, as she likely always was with her grandson or nephew whenever he followed her advice.
Harry gave a weary sigh. The first method of waking up had not worked, but it was not worth giving up yet.
‘To be honest, madam, I must admit — my name is Harry.’
In response, he received a surprised look, not only from Gladys, but from Tom as well.
‘How can that be, my dear?’ the lady asked, puzzled.
‘Well… it’s actually my middle name,’ Harry muttered. He needed to think of something quickly. ‘I’m Dudley Harry Polkiss. After my father. I mean, I’m Dudley Junior — and, you know, honestly, it’s so tiring living your whole life with someone else’s name. All my friends call me Harry. And you’ve been so kind to me, madam, that I thought… I should tell you my real name’ the boy blurted it all out, then looked at the lady before him in confusion, as if he himself had no idea what he had just said.
Gladys broke into a touched smile: ‘My dear Harry,’ — she placed emphasis on his name — ‘I cannot put into words how pleasant it is when one is admitted into the rank of friends. I shall be most pleased to be your friend, and from now on I shall address you by your middle name — I consider it very important that each member of a family should have their own distinctive name. Nowadays it is regarded as quite prestigious to name children after their parents or elder relatives — and I do not dispute it, for respect for tradition is always a good thing,’ — she grew more fervent — ‘but in doing so we deprive our children of character! Of their very individuality! And that is most important!’ While Gladys launched into this tirade, Harry cast sideways looks at Tom, the barman, to see how he would react to the fact that the woman beside him was criticising the choice of his name. Tom remained indifferent.
Gladys stopped to draw breath after her little speech. ‘Well now, you have raised an important matter, my dear Harry! But I should also like to share something with you. Do come downstairs; I shall be waiting at my favourite table. We have a great deal to discuss.’ Gladys gave him a wink, which, to be honest, rather disconcerted the boy.
He gave a brief nod and withdrew to his room to prepare. He decided to shrink his books down and tuck them into the pockets of his robes. He was irritated that the name magic had not worked, and, moreover, his mind kept circling with questions left from his confusing dream. He urgently wanted to write them down — but there was no time for it. He was left relying on his memory, which he did not trust at all that day.
Madam Bulstrode, as promised, was waiting for him at the familiar table. A teapot and two teacups were already set before her, and she was positively brimming with enthusiasm to continue the conversation.
‘Harry!’ she exclaimed again, delighted that her young charge considered her a close friend. The boy, however, no longer knew how to react to the sound of his own name, as it was a reminder that all his attempts so far to wake from the lucid dream had ended in failure. Although nothing could be worse than introducing himself under the name of his hated cousin. Now he still had to somehow get rid of the surname of Dudley’s obnoxious friend, Piers Polkiss, which he had carelessly blurted out before he had properly come to his senses.
When Harry took a seat at the table, Gladys took hold of his hands and asked kindly:
‘My dear boy, I trust you are feeling better now?’
‘Exactly, madam! I feel perfectly fine,’ Harry replied, politely freeing himself from her firm grip, ‘…all thanks to your efforts,’ — which was entirely untrue. After the sleep, Harry’s head ached and his throat was dry, so he hurried to pour himself a cup of tea. At the last moment, he chose not to add milk, as another method from the book on lucid dreaming came to mind. Hermione would have been horrified if she knew what he was planning to do — but where was Hermione, and where was he now?
‘I’m in the mood to have my fortune told,’ he announced to the lady sitting opposite him.
‘Have you been hiding your fortune-telling talent from me, my dear Harry? I am most curious now!’ Her eyes lit up. ‘My aunt was very skilled at reading coffee grounds, oh yes, but I did not inherit her abilities. However, I always find it interesting to watch.’
‘No, I’m really not good at it at all,’ Harry admitted, ‘…but I’m in a very difficult situation at the moment, and I think I could do with some advice from the Universe,’ Gladys gave a knowing gasp.
‘You may rely on me — I shall not speak out of turn. Come now, let us have your fortune told, my dear Harry.’
The vague instructions of Trelawney rose in the boy’s mind, although he had never expected that knowledge to ever be useful to him. He held the cup in both hands, closed his eyes, and concentrated on his question: ‘How do I get out of here?’ Harry drank slowly, until just a teaspoon of liquid was left at the bottom. The tea roses appeared to stare at him mockingly from the cheap porcelain. He then gave the cup three firm clockwise turns so that the tea leaves floated up from the bottom and spread along the sides. Finally, with a sharp, decisive movement, he turned the cup over onto the saucer, away from himself, and remained still — silently counting to seven.
Permitting himself to look, he cautiously lifted and inverted the cup, trying to read the signs. On the inner wall of the cup, precisely between rim and base, clocks gazed back at him. Fine grains were stuck around them on all sides, forming a sand-like ring around them.
Harry recalled his dream, and more than that, he recalled the Time-Turner he had picked up at the very end — he suddenly had a vivid sensation of what it was like to touch it, how the golden chain had felt cold in his hands. From the glass casing his own reflection looked back at him. It seemed so important to remember this scene. Why?
He did not believe in predictions — perhaps that very scepticism was hindering him now. But no one could say he avoided any methods just because he doubted their effectiveness. Right now, the tea leaves were spread before him in the shape of a clock, and he had no idea what it was supposed to mean. Tomorrow, he knew, he would set out to find a dream dictionary, that might help him interpret this mysterious symbol, but for now he could only feel the bitterness of disappointment on his tongue — it seemed as though those clocks were taunting him, counting endless minutes without memories, in the solitude of his own mind.
Fortune-telling, of course, did not pull him back out of the dream, nor had the other two methods he had tried before. In his life, things could never be so simple. Yet another failure only spurred his determination.
Whether it was a dream trap, or the consequence of a memory-wiping curse, Harry promised himself that he would find a way to get his identity back. He would remember his friends and figure out how he had ended up there, and return to where everyone knew that he was Harry Potter.