Betaed and edited by rambkowalczyk.
No spoilers, because this is totally AU as of HPB.
Warning: This chapter deals with the notion of suicide. If a character considering such action disturbs you in any way, please do not read. The views expressed by Phineas Nigellus are *not* the views of the author.
Chapter 27 – Down Memory Lane
The hands that used to be Harry’s were cold and clammy when Dumbledore pried them away from Riddle’s face and made him drink a mixture of several calming and relaxing potions. Dumbledore always kept a number of them in his office; he had to deal with hysterical students, parents and teachers (and sometimes ministry officials) surprisingly often.
Riddle drank without protest. He stopped shaking and fell quiet, sagging back into the chair. After a while, he opened his eyes. Dumbledore thought they looked less vibrantly green than Harry's eyes, but maybe it was only the dulling effect of the potions. Riddle stared ahead, at the dark panels of the windows. The moon had set already, and the stars were paling. A long night was coming to an end.
Dumbledore sat down behind his desk, waiting for the other to say something. After a while, Riddle reached for Harry's glasses, took them off his nose and looked at them while turning them around in his hands as if he didn't quite know what to make of them. Then he put them on again. Still he seemed to avoid Dumbledore’s eyes.
When he spoke, his voice was so quiet that it barely carried over the short distance between them. He seemed to be talking to himself.
"I remember everything. I wouldn’t remember things like that if they weren't real… I remember what my dormitory in the orphanage looked like and that I liked to sit in the space between my bed and the cupboard… I remember when the witch from Hogwarts came and told me I was a wizard. I remember getting my wand, I remember the train and being sorted… but I remember being sorted twice. I was sorted into Slytherin as Tom and into Gryffindor as Harry and they were both real… ".
His voice trailed off in wonder. Dumbledore decided it was time for a little clarity. "You know you're not Harry," he said carefully.
Riddle looked up, but still not quite at Dumbledore. "I didn't remember being Tom," he said. "My soul shared Harry's body and I didn't remember anything. It was as if I started all over again, from a new beginning, as if I were reborn. And all these years, I thought I was Harry Potter. But now I remember… and I know I was Tom Marvolo Riddle. I was Lord Voldemort."
Riddle stopped for a second and stared into space as if something invisible was distracting him. Then his eyes strayed to the desk between them and fell on Harry's wand. Dumbledore noted the longing in Riddle’s eyes for the wand as if the wand were a necessary part of him. Dumbledore prepared himself in case he were to do anything rash.
"It is very strange," he murmured and raised his hand slowly. "I know I'm Tom, and if I had remembered that, I would never have done the things I did as Harry, I'd never have made the friendships I did, I never would have chosen Gryffindor over Slytherin… but I have done these things and those decisions still feel right now, because I know why I did them and how it felt like… it felt good being Harry, most of the time… "
Dumbledore wondered if Riddle was telling the truth or trying to deceive him. He dared not use Legilimency right now for fear that it might provoke him. He noted that Riddle’s hand closed over the wand.
"And now I look back at my life” Tom continued “ – Tom's life and I know that Harry would never have done what Tom did…"
"The question," said the Headmaster cautiously, "is what will you do now? What do you want?"
Tom nodded as if that sounded very reasonable to him. His hand was still closed around the wand, but he didn't take it. "Do I do what Tom would do or do I do what Harry would do?"
"And are these all choices there are?" Dumbledore asked delicately.
For the first time, Tom looked him in the eyes. He let go of the wand and leaned back in the chair, looking thoughtful. Dumbledore relaxed realising that Tom was merely overwhelmed by this awakening and wasn’t planning to hurt him. "I could be both. I could be Tom who has lived Harry's life."
"I think that is who you are now," Dumbledore said with a nod. "Life goes on and we make decisions and experience new things and it changes who we are. Sometimes the changes are small and nearly imperceptible and sometimes they are huge and terrifying. But we cannot go back to being who we once were."
Tom had closed his eyes and didn't reply. He seemed to have fallen asleep. Dumbledore studied him for a long time, amazed by the strange things that had happened to this person. Then he got up quietly. He was glad that Riddle had fallen asleep, so he didn't wake him up. Instead he conjured up a narrow bed in the middle of the office before he left, hoping that sometime during the next few hours Riddle would wake up and choose a less uncomfortable place to sleep. Wordlessly he raised strong wards and placed charms on the room that would permit no one to leave or enter except for him. Even Tom in the full possession of his powers and memory would need several minutes to break these spells and that was enough time for Fawkes and the portraits to warn Dumbledore. Doing that, he could risk leaving Tom Harry's wand in case he woke up and needed something. And Dumbledore would finally get some sleep and time to think.
**
Tom wasn't asleep. He had merely been distracted by the wave of memory that seemed to drown him ever since he had started to recall his past.
It was as if his mind needed to re-examine every detail of his life. He had always had a near photographic memory, but this was more intense, even painful. Every tiny moment of his life seemed to come back in excruciating detail, with no order or system, many things at once. But what really overwhelmed him were the emotions that he felt at every recollection.
Living Harry's life had filled parts of himself that had been empty and dead. Many people had admired and liked him in school. But back then, they had all seemed the same to him – people who hoped to gain an advantage by being his friends, just like he was only nice to others to get what he wanted.
Now that he experienced what it was like to be someone's friend and wanting nothing more he was acutely aware of lost opportunities in Tom’s life. He remembered Alphard, who had been there all the time, content to just be with Tom. Could Alphard and I have been friends like Harry and Ron? Tom wondered. They might have been, but not only had Tom killed Alphard, he realised that he never shared anything important with him. Furthermore, Alphard’s death hadn’t made him immortal, and even if it had, would it have been worth the price? Harry wouldn't have needed a second to choose between Ron and immortality.
But it wasn't just his life as Tom Riddle that he relived. There was Harry's life, as well. So many things Harry hadn't paid attention to suddenly sprung to his eyes with a totally different meaning. Some of it made him wonder – why had Harry dealt so differently with his horrible childhood? Why hadn't he been more like Tom?
Some of these memories hurt, too. Thinking of Hagrid and knowing that he was the one who had framed him for killing Myrtle was one of the worst things. Thinking of Myrtle, too, was awful.
He recalled seeing himself inside the diary and seeing himself through Harry's eyes and it was eye-opening. All his ideals and convictions fell apart in front of his eyes. What reason was there to hate people like Hermione just because her parents were Muggles? He still didn't like Muggles. In fact, Harry's life had only reinforced his old hatred. Most Muggles were ignorant, narrow-minded fools and those who weren't downright nasty still were dull and… well, Muggles. But that didn't say anything about Muggleborns. Hermione was a great witch and a great friend. And Squibs like Mrs Figg were less magical, but they had still done him good. They weren't bad people…
Some of his recollections made him smile – Hermione with her books and her obsessive studying and realising that this was just how he had been as a boy. 'The spell she put on those coins the Dumbledore's Army used to communicate wasn’t all that different from what I used for the Dark Mark when I first invented it in my seventh year, I wonder what she'll say to that,' he thought and then he remembered that he wouldn't be able to tell her because he wasn't Harry, he was Tom, he was Voldemort. And all the power, all the knowledge suddenly wasn't worth anything if he couldn't share it with his friends. And that hurt as well.
He wanted to be Harry and forget about all of this … but not really. Forgetting who he was scared him. It seemed worse than dying – living without being himself. He blinked and stared at the dark walls of the office. There were things worse than death. What a strange thought. Living without knowing true happiness or friendship or love. Living without being yourself. Living and becoming someone you yourself hated was hell on earth.
Tom wanted to go back in time and relive his life so he would not be this person he hated. He wanted to see whether he and Alphard could really have been friends, to see what would have happened if Hagrid had never been expelled. 'I spent thirty years trying to escape death. I could have done so many other things in those years. And in the end, where did it get me? I killed, I mutilated myself and turned into a hideous monster and finally I was caught in my own body, unable to control it. I was a fool.'
“And a coward,” the part of him that was still thinking like Harry added.
Everything he had once wanted now seemed worthless to him. So Tom thought of the things Harry wanted. Harry wanted to belong. Harry wanted affection. Harry wanted the people he loved to be safe. And sometimes it worked and then it was wonderful and easy, more so than anything Tom had ever known. Every single moment of this shared happiness, of friendship and belonging was worth living for, worth dying for. Compared to that, everything else was nothing.
'And I can never have it again.' The thought struck him all of a sudden.
'The friends I shared this with are Harry's friends. They will no longer be friends with me as they fear to speak my name.'
It was the deepest possible despair, knowing that he could never have the one thing that made life worth living for. It was worse than the touch of a Dementor because there was no way to fight it. None of his happy memories really belonged to him. He couldn't even tell himself that his despair wasn't real, because it was and it would never end.
'We cannot go back to being who we were,' he heard Dumbledore's voice. He couldn't go back and change who he was or what he had done.
He couldn't change the fact that he had turned himself into a hideous monster and that he had terrorised every witch and wizard in this land until even their children feared to speak his name.
He thought of Ginny and his diary; saw his younger self draining the life out of her, killing her. He thought of Mrs Weasley and the boggart showing each member of her family being killed by Voldemort's followers. He thought of Cedric. It didn't matter that Cedric had been killed on his soulless copy's orders and not on Tom's own, because he knew that he would have given the same orders. Voldemort was who he was, who he had been before he had lived Harry's life.
He thought of Sirius, sentenced to a life in Azkaban for being Voldemort's spy and how he would have thought it was delicious irony that Sirius was innocent. He remembered slowly corrupting Wormtail until the broken and terrified man spilled the Potter's last secret. It had been the copy, but Tom had wanted to do it. He, too, had been afraid of the prophesied child, and he, too, had wanted to kill him as soon as possible.
He had killed James first, then Lily.
Tom had the wand in his hand before he could think about it. There was no way to change the past, but there was a very simple way to end this.
This was the other side of knowing the things worth living for. This was the other side of Harry's readiness to sacrifice himself in order to save the ones he loved. Guilt. Shame. Despair.
He'd never been afraid of pain. He had gone through terrible pain in order to become immortal. Before, he had been afraid of not existing anymore, of simply ceasing to be there. Right now, every second of existence was too much.
"This is what I hate most about young people," a drawling voice said just as he pointed the wand at himself. It surprised him so much that he stopped long enough to listen. "They're selfish beyond belief. My pain, my life, my feelings is all that’s on their mind. No sense of perspective, no responsibility, not a single grain of reason. It's bad enough to hear them ranting about it – and you wouldn't believe what I've heard in my life, boy, but what you're about to do is the most disgusting and selfish act of all."
It wasn't a person; it was a portrait talking to him. Phineas Nigellus, his memory supplied. Least popular headmaster of all times. Once head of Slytherin house, member of the noble and most ancient house of Black. Mocking him.
"You don't know what you're talking about," Tom snapped. "You don't even know who I am."
Nigellus managed to look smug and derisive at once. "How woefully unoriginal of you, Mr Riddle.
“You don't know what you're talking about?” the portrait mocked. “That's not satisfying. That's what any pimple-faced Hufflepuff would say. But then again you're the person who thought it was stylish to call his followers the 'Death Eaters'."
Tom stared at him aghast. Nobody had ever dared to mock him like that, not since he had first called himself Lord Voldemort. And Nigellus obviously knew who he was; he must have overheard his conversation with Dumbledore. His anger must have shown on his face, for Nigellus raised his brows disdainfully.
"What? I think it was high time somebody told you this. And I refuse to be afraid of a man over sixty who styles himself Dark Lord but contemplates suicide over completely adolescent reasons," Tom didn't get a chance to say anything, because Nigellus seemed to enjoy ranting at him quite immensely. "Let me see. This is probably a case of 'nobody loves me.' Well, it seems that's your own fault, isn't it? And let me tell you something: they're not going to love you any more if you finish this. I can't figure out why, but they seem unreasonably attached to the boy whose body you inhabit."
Tom's throat went dry and he almost let go of Harry's wand. Harry. He hadn't thought of Harry at all. He hadn't even asked Dumbledore what had happened to Harry. He was probably behind the Veil, but could he come back now that the ritual ended? Probably not while Tom inhabited his body. But certainly not if Tom put the killing curse on himself.
Nigellus was still not finished with his tirade, but Tom wasn’t listening anymore. He thought of Harry.
It was hard to think of Harry as a separate person from himself. For the last fifteen years, he had been Harry, or at least he had been so close to Harry that he hadn't been able to tell them apart. He knew everything about Harry, had shared everything with him.
Harry was the part of himself who had not done a lot of stupid, horrible things. The part of himself who had made all the right choices. The part of himself whom people loved.
The part of himself he was able to love, because Harry was not really a part of himself.
And suddenly, he understood how Sirius must have felt in Azkaban. He was unable to feel anything good, he was certain that nothing in his life would ever feel good again, but there was still somebody worth living for. Somebody he had to protect at all cost.
Tom put the wand away in disgust. He had come so close to destroying Harry's only hope to return from behind the Veil. But this time, at least, he would try to make the right choices.
**
Dumbledore hadn't been able to sleep as much as he needed or wanted to. It didn't do to stay awake for days at his age, but how could he sleep with this problem at his hands? Guiltily he took a few more of the potions that would keep him awake and going. Poppy Pomfrey would kill Snape if she knew the potions master had supplied him with these.
He thought about informing Minerva about the whole situation with Riddle and Harry, but even contemplating this conversation gave him a headache. No, he had to deal with Riddle first.
When he entered his office, he expected to find Riddle either sleeping or upset, but neither was the case. He was standing by the windows and staring outside. A cursory glance around the room told Dumbledore that nothing had been moved except for Harry's wand (which now lay on the desk once more) and a few of the instruments he used to gain quick intelligence about people's whereabouts. Who had Riddle looked for?
"Good morning," he said politely, even though it was almost lunch-time. "I hope you have had enough time to contemplate your situation?" This was, as he was very well aware a vain hope, because Riddle's situation was ridiculously complicated.
Without saying anything, Tom turned around. Dumbledore, barely noticed his lack greeting as Tom’s appearance literally changed over night. He was of course still wearing Harry's body, but now everyone would have noticed that this wasn't the boy he had been the night before.
There were dark rings under his green eyes and he seemed to have aged years in the course of one night. Everything looked tight, tense and in control, from the thin slash of his mouth to his over all posture. Even his unruly hair seemed flattened.
"Aha," Dumbledore said, raising his brows slightly. "It seems you had more than enough time to contemplate, seeing as you obviously haven't slept at all."
Riddle did look exhausted, but past the point where he wanted to rest. "Is there a way to get Harry back from the Veil?" he asked.
"An interesting question, one that I have of course asked myself as well," Dumbledore replied. He hadn't expected Riddle to ask this and wasn't yet ready to give the answer, not before he knew more about Tom's intentions. "Does this concern you a lot?"
For a moment, Tom's tight control faltered, as if he wanted to say, 'yes, of course, don't be ridiculous', but instead he only said: "It does. If there is a way to get Harry back, do it, or tell me how, so I can do it. If there isn't one, say it now, so I can find a way to do it."
It was all there: Harry's fierce determination to save someone, Tom's utter confidence in his own abilities, Harry's youthful impatience, and Tom's cold practicality. And their shared willingness to risk everything they had in order to achieve their means.
Dumbledore smiled, the first genuine smile he had for Tom. "There are ways. I'm sure that between our shared knowledge and talent, it will be a manageable feat. But not before breakfast."
**
Meanwhile, Harry had overcome most of the trepidation he felt at finding himself in the afterlife replica of Grimmauld Place. Standing in the hall, staring at the empty spot where Mrs Black's portrait should have been, he tried to decide where to look for Sirius first.
He could go to the kitchen; Sirius had spent a lot of time there. He went down the hallway and down the stairs to the basement kitchen. But before he could even enter, he caught an awful scent like burnt wool only much worse and the dulled noise of a woman yelling and the muffled wails of what sounded like a young child. It made the hairs on the back of his neck stand. Cautiously he approached the door and opened it just wide enough to glimpse through.
The kitchen looked a lot newer and tidier. Every surface was gleaming, except for the floor, where some dark liquid had been spilled. A woman was standing with her back to Harry, yelling at the cowering form of a tiny house-elf. The elf's left ear was small and crumpled like a shrunken carrot and she wailed like a little child.
" – piece of filth, should have your useless hands cut off at your miserable birth!" The woman's yelling was high-pitched and immediately reminded Harry of Mrs Black's portrait. The kitchen was empty except for her and the house-elf and he decided to leave as quietly as possible.
He suspected she might have been a younger version of Mrs Black, as he tiptoed back into the hall. He had come here to find Sirius, but what if he found his relatives as well? There were a lot of dead Blacks and from what Sirius had told him, none of them seemed very nice. Harry hoped that he couldn't be cursed in this world behind the Veil.
Stealthily he moved up the gloomy stairs to the first floor. The door to the room he had shared with Ron during his stay at Grimmauld Place wasn't entirely closed. He could see a young girl lying one of the beds, reading a heavy book. She was probably Harry's age and wearing what looked like a very old-fashioned dress-robe. Dark hair fell over her shoulders in heavy curls. She didn't look too menacing, but she reminded Harry of Sirius' cousin Bellatrix, and even though it couldn't be her because Bellatrix was still alive, he decided not to talk to her.
As he snuck down the corridor, he wondered why the doors of Grimmauld Place didn't lead away from it into other rooms that weren't supposed to be there as all others had so far. It made no sense, unless they only led away when Harry wanted to go some place else.
The next door he found open led to a study. He'd never been in this room before because it had always been locked. Tall bookcases filled nearly every space along the walls. The room was only lit by a weak gas lamp on the desk and looked like a looming cave inside a mountain of books. A man was sitting by the desk and writing with a long thin quill. It was red, like a cock's tail feather and flickered like a flame in the lamp's light.
Harry was sure this man wasn't Sirius and he had no desire to talk to him. As quietly as possible he edged away from the door.
Finally he came to the drawing room on the first floor. The door was wide open and every lamp seemed to be lit inside, so that it cast a warm and bright light into the dark corridor. It was silent, but Harry was certain that somebody would be in there. As he came closer, he saw more of the room. It was a completely different sight from the dusty, doxy-infested room he had cleaned with Sirius and the Weasleys. The high, olive-green walls were covered in magnificent tapestries and the moss-green curtains looked soft and velvety in the shine of the lamps, inviting one’s touch to see if they were really as soft. Every surface of wood and glass was polished and rich in colour.
At the table in the middle of the room sat a man in dark robes. He was facing the door and Harry, but he didn’t notice Harry because he was staring thoughtfully at something on the table. Hoping that he wouldn't look up, Harry came closer, until he stood almost on the threshold of the drawing room.
The man picked up a pack of cards and started shuffling them. Harry had time to study him closely. The man could have been Draco Malfoy's older brother, his hair was the same colourless shade of blond, – but he could also have been Sirius' brother, for his handsome face and his eyes looked startlingly like Harry's godfather. Harry estimated that he was about Mr Weasley's age.
He started to lay the cards on the table and Harry recognised what he was doing: he was fortune-telling like Professor Trelawney. After the last card he paused, frowning, then he looked up, directly at Harry.
Harry froze, half expecting the man to yell at him like Mrs Black, but he only looked mildly curious and then he smiled as if someone had made a joke only he could hear.
"You're not a Black," he said. "Unless one of my nieces had a son I haven't heard of. But actually you look more like a Muggle and that begs the question why you're here. Now, who would have Muggle friends? The lost son Sirius, obviously. But you're what – fifteen? Sixteen?"
Harry was still too stunned to answer, but hope flared inside him as the man mentioned Sirius.
"Alright, my first guess is that you're Sirius' godson."
Harry had no idea who this wizard was, but he didn't care. The man knew Sirius well enough to know that he had a godson. Excitedly he came closer.
"Do you know where I can find Sirius?"
"I might," replied the wizard, but he didn't sound inclined to do so, at least not yet. Harry felt desperate.
"Please, Sir –"
"You should," the wizard said, calmly ignoring Harry's plea, "be more cautious in this house, and also more polite. For example, you should find out who I am and if I'm to be trusted. To do so, you might introduce yourself."
Harry hesitated a moment. He had lived in the wizarding world long enough to expect people to know his name and the reaction in this case might not be positive if he gave away that he was the Boy Who Lived. This man could still be a Death Eater, or at least a wizard dark enough to sympathize with Lord Voldemort. But on the other hand the man had already figured out so much about Harry that he would probably know if he lied.
"My name is Harry Potter," Harry said warily. "I'm Sirius' godson."
The wizard smiled but it was a cool and distant smile. He pointed at one of the chairs at his table. "Sit down, please, Mr Potter. My name is Alphard Black."
"You're Sirius'… uh, his great-uncle? You bequeathed him money he used when he ran away from home," Harry said out loud before he could wonder if it was wise to do so.
"Indeed. And you are, if I'm not mistaken, the boy who almost defeated the Dark Lord?"
Harry wasn't surprised that Alphard Black knew this, but something about the way the man had phrased his question sounded strange. Two things, actually. The people who called Voldemort 'the Dark Lord' usually were his followers. And why did he say 'almost'? Very few people knew that Voldemort had returned.
"Well," Harry said uncomfortably, as he sat down on the offered chair, "I didn't really do anything. He tried to kill me when I was a baby and failed, that's all." He tried to sound guileless.
"And yet the Dark Lord was reduced to a shadow of his former self and needed thirteen years to return to his old power, or so I've been told."
"Who told you this?" Harry asked suspiciously. Until a few weeks, most wizards hadn't known that Voldemort had survived at all, and much less that he had returned. Only members of the Order or Death Eaters would have known better.
"Oh, a number of people," Alphard said airily. "I don't spend all my time in this house, you know? Everything I know about the war against Voldemort I've heard from people who died after me and brought some news with them. I died before the Dark Lord rose to power the first time." He hesitated a moment and then watched Harry very closely when he said: "He was the one who killed me."
"Voldemort?" Harry gasped.
"Yes, that's why I'm always interested in news about him. Your godfather has reluctantly told me some very fascinating things, especially about you."
"You've talked to Sirius? Is he alright? He's here in the house, isn't he?"
Alphard shrugged. "He's in the house, he's not in the house – this place doesn't work like the real world does."
"Well, how does it work, then?" Harry asked impatiently.
"That's the greatest mystery of them all," Black replied lightly. "How does the human mind work? Our mind doesn't follow the same laws as the material world. We can travel through time and space in our memory and imagination, we can be in two places at once and visit places that only exist in our head. We can make up people and lie to ourselves about those we know, we can assume and deduce, we can hope and despair and believe in impossible dreams. This place is created by our minds and it follows the rules of our minds."
Harry was momentarily stunned by this answer and then decided that the gist of it was probably: we don't know the rules and anything is possible. It was about as vague as one of Professor Trelawney's speeches or one of Professor Dumbledore's explanations. But one thing was sure: whatever Hermione had read in that stupid diary was wrong. Alphard laughed at his expression.
"You're a Gryffindor, aren't you?" It sounded just derisive enough to get on Harry's nerves. "Alright, it's not really that important. But you might see and learn things about your godfather that will surprise you, or confuse you or maybe even hurt you. You'll look into his mind, and a human mind can be a frightening place."
Alphard got up. As he did so, the lights in the room dimmed, and it seemed to age around them, soon looking much more like the drawing room Harry knew, although not quite as filthy. The cards on the table vanished as Alphard rose and then somebody entered through the door.
At first Harry thought it was Sirius and he wanted to call his name, but Alphard seized his shoulder firmly and shook his head. And then Harry saw why. The man who had entered wasn't really Sirius, and now that he was close, nobody would have mistaken him for Sirius. His floppy hair was a dull brown shade, his face was soft and sallow and nowhere near as handsome as Sirius. His scowl reminded Harry of the young Snape he had seen in the Pensieve.
He didn't notice the two at all, and Alphard steered Harry to the door and into the gloomy hall. "That young man is Regulus Black," he explained to Harry. He seemed to be lowering his voice and treading softly like Harry had before, as if he too feared to be overheard. Harry could detect a hint of sad disappointment in his voice. "Sirius' little brother. He's mostly harmless, another sad case of how this noble house has gone to ruins."
Harry looked over his shoulder. He could hear Sirius' brother ranting at somebody or something. Then they walked upstairs and the sounds subsided behind them. Alphard opened the door to one of the bedrooms. A wild-eyed woman sat amidst torn sheets and the walls looked as if a rabid animal had clawed off the wallpaper. She shrieked at them and they quickly closed the door.
"One of my great-aunts, I think," Alphard said coldly. "Madness runs in the family."
He opened the next door. It led into a barn with a very thin and ruddy looking white horse. They shrugged and went on to the next door. And there they finally found Sirius.
The room behind this door looked a lot like the bedroom on the first floor where Harry and Ron had slept. Two little boys sat on the floor. Both were wearing green wizard robes and shiny black buckled shoes (Harry thought they looked rather girly). The taller one was about seven years old and had a bright and handsome face. Even at this age it was unmistakably Sirius. The younger boy had brown hair, and Harry recognised him as Regulus Black. Between the boys lay a dog as huge as a calf with grey fur and glowing red eyes. It had a lolling tongue and looked friendly, but Harry knew it from his Care of Magical Creatures textbook: it was a hellhound.
The boys were totally absorbed by a long roll of parchment. Each of them had a small quill with colour-changing ink and they were drawing pictures.
Regulus drew what looked like a green worm. "It's a serpent," he said with a slight lisp. He added a few stick figures. "It's eating the Muggles!"
Sirius sucked at his quill and then drew a taller stick figure with a hat and a sword. "That's Salazar Slytherin," he said triumphantly. He started to draw what could have been a horse or a cow, or maybe an over-sized cat, but finally it looked more like a dog. Meanwhile, Regulus had drawn another two of the stick figures on his end of the parchment.
"This is you Sirius," he beamed, trying to get his attention, "and this is me." But Sirius didn't look up. Next to the dog Sirius drew another dog and then a very small thing and then a tall stag. The stag was easily the biggest figure on the parchment. Regulus pouted and started to draw a huge beast around the two stick figures of him and his brother. "It's a lion and it's eating us," he exclaimed loudly, trying to get Sirius' attention.
Harry stared at them, unable to find words for what he saw. The boys never looked up, but the hellhound was looking steadily at them with his red glowing eyes.
"As I said, the human mind can be a frightening place," Alphard said softly to Harry. Still neither of the boys looked up.
"Why is Sirius a child?" Harry whispered. "Is this really him?"
"He's remembering," was Alphard's calm reply. "His mind is caught up in the past. You can talk to him, but I don't think he'll recognise you right now. Better wait until he thinks of a time when he was older."
Harry knew that he couldn't do anything but wait, but watching Sirius like this scared him immensely. Whatever Alphard said, to him it looked like Sirius had lost his mind. This was unlike any thing he had ever experienced. There were no basilisks to slay, no Death Eaters to fight, no magic to help him. He wasn't sure if he could do this.