Chapter 3: Cloak and Amber

  Harry trudged through the bustling streets of Muggle London, his face twisted into a scowl. Mere hours ago, he had been unceremoniously ejected from his rented room by the wizened bartender of the Leaky Cauldron. In Harry's own world, Tom had been a friendly sort, always slipping him extra treacle tart. But here, the man's watery eyes had narrowed to slits as he brandished a crumbling Galleon like evidence of a murder.

  "Ge' out o' here with yer Leprechaun gold," the bartender snarled, his spittle flying, "before I call the bloody aurors on ye!"

  Harry kicked a pebble into the gutter, sighing. It wasn't his fault the Galleons from his dimension had decided to disintegrate like biscuits dunked in tea! At first Harry had been quite pleased with the handful of coins that had traveled with him through the Veil. The emergency kit they make Unspeakables carry actually turned out to be useful, he'd thought. The amount had bought him a room and meals for a couple days, enough so that he could contact the Department and figure out his next steps. He'd even fallen asleep grinning the night before, imagining Sirius's face when they reunited.

  But by dawn, his optimism had unraveled. Mysterious, fraying holes dotted his jacket, his hiking boots sported ominous black stains that squelched when he walked, and every Galleon he'd spent now sat on the bartender's counter, decaying like they were hit with a disintegration curse.

  Digging a hand into his pocket, Harry rubbed one of the now-worthless coins in his pocket, a bit of gold dust coming off with his thumb. Definitely not Gringotts-approved, he thought grimly. Oddly, his wand, mokeskin pouch, and even his glasses remained pristine - as though the dimension had grudgingly decided he could stay but drew the line at his socks.

  Harry added the concerning signs this morning to a long list of questions he already had. He really hoped his guess was incorrect - if this dimension rejects foreign objects, what might it do to foreign people? Pressing down on his bubbling worries, he started walking faster. Everything would be answered once he got to the Ministry.

  Thankfully, the agreed upon hour was fast approaching. The dying sun bled across the skyline, washing the government buildings orange. Harry moved through the crowds like a shadow, unnoticed by office workers clutching briefcases and automobiles stuck in traffic. Honks and exhaust fumes thickened the air, but he barely registered them.

  He turned down a familiar alley lined with squat buildings. There it stood - the telephone booth, its red paint flaking with age, wedged between an overfilled dumpster and a wall scrawled with graffiti. Stepping inside, the smell of rusted metal hit him first, then memory: Hermione's elbow jabbing his ribs, Ron's awkward bent as he reached for the receiver.

  Fifteen years old, fueled by dread and frustration, certain he could outrace death if he just moved fast enough.

  A lump formed in his throat. Last time he had come here, his friends had followed him in blind faith, on a desperate mission to save his godfather. Yet when all was finished, Sirius disappeared into the Veil not because of Voldemort, but because of Harry's own reckless decisions.

  His finger hovered over the rotary dial. The booth felt smaller now, or perhaps he had grown. Harry had faced a war, vanquished Voldemort, and crossed dimensions to find his godfather. He would not fail him again.

  "Bzzz." The dial whirred back into place.

  "Welcome to the Ministry of Magic. Please state your name and business." The cool female voice sounded exactly the same as in his memories.

  "... Harry. Here to make up for my past mistakes."

  "Thank you. Visitor, please take the badge and attach it to the front of your robes."

  As the floor shuddered and descended underground, Harry pulled on the standard Unspeakable robes that he had withdrawn earlier from a vault in Gringotts. Throwing the hood over his head, Harry saw tiny silver runes blink in the fabric - the obscuring enchantment was working. He then picked up the silver badge that said "Harry, Making Amends" and pinned it to the front of his robes.

  A small rectangle of golden light slowly expanded from his feet to his body, until eventually the entire Atrium came into view. Only a few employees were still walking down the dark hall at this late hour, most of them heading towards the handful of Floo fires still burning.

  "The Ministry of Magic wishes you a pleasant evening." The door swung open.

  Harry emerged from the telephone booth onto the Ministry's polished darkwood floor, the Atrium's golden statues glinting under torchlight. He walked over to the security desk, nodding curtly at Lapis who stood there waiting - top hat tilted, yellow eyes sharp as ever.

  "Evening, my dimensionally displaced intern," the Runemaster murmured, clasping Harry's hand with a conspiratorial squeeze.

  Harry gave a wry grin. He realized he hadn't even told the man his first name yet. "Just call me Harry, sir." His whisper sounded unnaturally hoarse through the hood's enchantments.

  Lapis's chuckle was like a dry rustle of parchment. He turned to the security guard. "Harry, my co-worker."

  The badly-shaven wizard peered suspiciously Harry's badge, especially at the lack of a last name. But after he saw that Harry was an Unspeakable, the guard waved him through. Harry and his former mentor soon set off to the lifts.

  Lapis pressed the button for Level Nine, then leaned against the brass grille, scrutinizing Harry as if he could see through the hood. "How familiar are you with our Department's layout?"

  Harry's thumb brushed his wand absently, his mind still on Sirius. "Well, I didn't have a Mastery in Runes or Arithmancy. So I spent most of the time doing catch-up studies and shadowing you on trips." Harry was a bit embarrassed. "I did see most of the chambers during a quick foray during my Fifth Year, though."

  Lapis arched an eyebrow. "A field trip? Hogwarts' curriculum grows more inventive by the year."

  The loud clattering of the elevator masked Harry's awkward cough. "Not exactly … it's a long story." If only he knew how much damage Harry's 'field trip' did …

  The grilles creaked as they slid open. Lapis adjusted his hat, gaze lingering on the ominous black door ahead. "Given your … unique circumstances, we'll be going beyond the surface chambers - to core areas most Unspeakables never get to see."

  Harry's jaw tightened. He'd personally seen six rooms during the war: Death, Time, Space, the Hall of Prophecy, the brain-strewn Thought Chamber, and an administrative room that wouldn't look out of place in the rest of the Ministry, filled with Runic artifacts and stacks of parchment; Lapis and some other Unspeakables used it as an office space.

  This was the first he had heard of a core area. What kinds of bizarre objects could be found there, more secretive than the Death Chamber or the Hall of Prophecy? Harry found it hard to imagine.

  The black door swung open silently as they approached, recognizing Lapis' ward-key signatures. Inside, the circular chamber mirrored the one from his own world - cold marble underfoot, blue-flamed candles casting jagged shadows, twelve identical doors set equidistant around them like sentinels. Lapis strode to the center, overcoat swirling. "Follow closely," he commanded, wand slashing downward. "Scalae Revelare!"

  A circular section of black marble rippled, liquefying like ink. Lapis strode forth without hesitation, descending step by step into the pool until liquid reached his chest. "A security measure," he remarked, tilting his head upward. The water swallowed his smirk, then his hat.

  Harry snorted. Of course the Ministry buries its deepest secrets under a fucking swimming pool. Harry threw back the stuffy Unspeakable hood to get a closer look. He brushed the liquid with his hand - cold, but no resistance. Curiously, there was no wetness left on his fingers.

  The dark water reminded him uncomfortably of the frozen pond in the Forest of Dean, where he was almost strangled by Slytherin's locket. For Sirius, Harry reminded himself. Inhaling sharply, he stepped in, the chill seeping through his boots.

  He slowly walked down the spiral staircase, each step taking him deeper into the cold water. Dragging a hand across his thigh, he realized the liquid didn't soak into his jeans - a strange, incompatible feeling of being wet and dry at the same time. There was no buoyancy either, and his outer robes passed through the water like it was simply air.

  The liquid closed over his head. His throat seized instinctively before relaxing; the air entering his lungs was thin and needle-sharp, as if winter itself had learned to breathe. He forced his eyes open. Darkness pressed in, thick and suffocating, worse than the void under a Dementor's cowl.

  He was completely disoriented, his jaw clenched against the frost seeping into his molars. How much further? Fingers brushed the wall, seeking support, but the smooth surface offered no grooves, no texture, nothing to grab ahold of. The chill sunk deeper and deeper, from his skin to his muscles to his bones, until he couldn't think, couldn't concentrate on anything except how cold it was …

  And then heat flooded back into his body. Stumbling down the last few steps, Harry fell on his hands and knees, gasping for breath. The white marble floor felt warm underneath his palms. Squinting against the glare, he looked up, realizing he was in another circular room - this one made of featureless white stone.

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  Lapis was right by his elbow, pulling him up with brisk efficiency. "Composure, Potter," the Unspeakable intoned. "The entrance pool serves its purpose. Most vomit their first time."

  Harry dragged a sharp breath, fingers flexing against his still-tingling palms. "That felt like drowning in a Dementor's ice bath." He shot Lapis a sidelong glare, voice flat. "Suppose this was your idea of workplace orientation?"

  "Elementary security protocol." Lapis' yellow eyes glinted in the chamber's cold light. "The aqueous barrier strips glamours and … undesirable mental influences." His gaze sharpened on Harry, clinical as a scalpel. "No lingering compulsions? Excellent. The Head dislikes tardiness."

  Harry made a sudden connection - it was Thief's Downfall from Gringotts, just a lot colder. Shaking his head, Harry checked his body, finding his clothes curiously dry. Behind them, the submerged staircase slithered upward, sealing with a tomb-like thud.

  "Bit dramatic for a lobby," Harry muttered, eyeing the glowing white ceiling.

  "Lobby," Lapis echoed, lip quirking. "How quaint. This way - and do try not to gawp. The last newcomer grew remarkably tedious after her third existential crisis."

  Harry trailed the Unspeakable through a smooth and handleless door that yielded with a light push.

  The chamber beyond stole his breath, even with forewarning. A dome arched overhead like the ribcage of some ancient beast, its ceiling lost to shadows. Thousands of glass orbs clung to the walls, their surfaces catching the light in spectral winks as they spiraled upward into darkness. For a heartbeat, Harry's pulse stuttered - the Hall of Prophecy - but there were no orderly shelves here. No dust.

  At the room's heart loomed a stepped altar, dozens of feet tall - a ziggurat of black stone crowned by an flickering azure flame. The firelight leeched color from the air, painting the orbs into a constellation of frozen tears.

  Moving closer, Harry saw the truth: the orbs weren't static. A conveyor belt of tarnished brass carried them in a ceaseless procession along the walls, each cradled in a claw-like fixture. The mechanism coiled upward, higher, higher, until the belt twisted into a helix - two twisting serpents plunging toward the altar. One half of the helix carried orbs down, suspending an orb directly above the fire altar at all times. The other half carried orbs up into a hole in the ceiling, disappearing from view.

  "What … is this place?" Harry let out a shocked breath. Even after fighting a full-blown battle against Death Eaters through the various chambers, then becoming an intern in his world, Harry realized he only knew a fraction of the secrets hidden beneath the Department of Mysteries.

  "The Oracle's Flame." An ethereal female voice answered.

  The air grew heavy with the scent of aged parchment as Harry turned. Amidst frosted glass orbs, a figure coalesced like quicksilver trapped in moonlight - the ghost of a regal woman in her 30's, her form wavering at the edges as if resisting the pull of the material world.

  Her gown, a relic of another century, cascaded in heavy folds that trailed against the flagstones as she drifted towards the pair. A bonnet of black silk framed a face of cold elegance: high cheekbones, lips pressed tight, and eyelids sealed shut as though her very gaze might unravel the fabric of existence.

  Phantom words brushed past like a winter breeze. "You tread where the breath of Fate's pyre is captured within crystal orb." Her grey lips never moved, giving an illusion that the voice was not hers.

  "Matron." Lapis' tone had an extra politeness to it that Harry seldom heard. "This is our dimension-traveling guest - Harry Potter."

  Drifting in front of Harry, the Matron tilted her head, bonnet ribbons fading into the gloom. "The Matron greets you, twice-born son of distant realms." Her curtsy rippled like smoke. "You behold the Investigator of Death, Fate, and Soul … Keeper of Prophecies … and Head Unspeakable of the Department of Mysteries."

  Harry stood frozen, still not recovered from the sudden barrage of new revelations. The Head Unspeakable is a ghost? Are you pulling my wand?

  From the upright way she held herself, Harry almost thought the ghost was Helena Ravenclaw. Yet the Grey Lady was arrogant and proud, whereas the Matron seemed detached and emotionless. And the eyelids, pulled closed over sunken eye sockets, hinted at an even more grisly death.

  "Ahem." Lapis' cough pulled Harry out of his trance.

  "Greetings, Matron." Harry hesitated, unsure whether to bow or meet her eyeless gaze - a discomfort born not from her ghostly pallor, but the weight of her titles. Head Unspeakable. Keeper of Prophecies. The ghost who might hold threads to Sirius.

  He turned his eyes to the smoldering fire, asking the question that had been on his mind since he entered the room. "So this Oracle's Flame … not just a fancy bonfire, then. Those orbs - they're the prophecies from the Hall? The Department makes them here?"

  The Matron's lips curved, a knife's edge of amusement. Again, her voice rings out without her mouth moving, as if the phantom in front of him was just a projection. "The child discerns correctly. Ashen records of Seers, caught within glass … reliquaries for mortal folly. In the Hall of Prophecy they rest above, waiting for fate to move at last." Her voice resonated through the room, each syllable a chime. "But you did not trespass these depths to stare at echoes. Come. The person you seek lies yonder." With nary a glance backward (not that she could see anyways), the Matron floated towards another handleless door on the opposite side of the room.

  Lapis nodded at Harry as he trailed after the Head Unspeakable. Harry swallowed, burying the urge to demand answers. Alive. He has to be. Hope and dread filled his heart.

  Passing through the door, Harry felt a gust of warm air. Sunlight filtered through a canopy of ancient oaks, dappling the forest floor where roots knotted like old bones. Cheerful birdsong drifted into his ears. But he was in no mood to appreciate nature, nor to wonder how such a scene could appear inside the Ministry.

  For there, entombed in amber stone, lay Sirius.

  His godfather might've been sleeping, save for his posture: wand still gripped in his hand, stubbled jaw clenched, robes still burnt from Bellatrix's final curse. The resin held him suspended mid-fall, a fly in syrup. Harry's boots dug into the dirt as he rushed forward, hands pressing against the amber - smooth as glass, warm to the touch. No breath fogged the surface. No pulse fluttered in Sirius's throat.

  "Sirius …" Harry whispered, his voice almost inaudible. His thumbnail dug at the hard resin. Same dark hair. Same expression on his face, frozen half-way between laughter and surprise. Even the crease between Sirius's brows, etched there by years of Azkaban and war. It was as if the Sirius from five years ago had been perfectly preserved the moment he fell through the Veil.

  "Sirius … he–" Harry's voice shook. He felt like he was fifteen again, back in the Death Chamber, helplessly watching the man disappear into whispering curtains. His gaze darted to the ghost floating besides him in a quiet, desperate plea, afraid of hearing the worst.

  The Matron's closed eyelids lifted faintly, as if sensing the tremor in his magic. "The amber is no coffin, child," Transparent fingers traced the gemstone surface. "It is a shield that protects your godfather from planar rejection. The man is between life and death, frozen in stasis. Five years hence, and he remains precisely as he entered the Veil."

  Alive. Or close enough. Harry blinked back tears, leaning his forehead on the amber surface with a sigh. Relief tasted metallic, like blood on his tongue. He'd spent years chasing after this moment, half-convinced everything would be for naught. Now, Sirius' face lay inches away - real, not another dream.

  Harry turned to the Unspeakables, throat tight. "Suppose I owe you guys for this." His voice roughened, gaze lingering on Sirius' stasis. "At least a really boring year of paperwork. Watching over him … it means a lot to me."

  Lapis' smile deepened, one hand clasping Harry on the shoulder to reassure him. The Matron retracted her hand from the amber surface. "The thread of fate need not be prematurely severed," she said, her tone as unyielding as the gemstone. "Your gratitude, while quaint, misapprehends the Matron's purpose. We do not shepherd souls. We observe them." The words hung in the air like a verdict.

  Boots shifted in the dirt as Harry took a step back, calming himself. His eyes drifted towards the dark splotches on the leather surface of his shoes. "Planar rejection," he muttered, thinking back to the Matron's explanation. "I think I've experienced it already. Stuff that separates from me starts crumbling. Do dimensional travelers eventually decay as well?" Harry rubbed the fraying patches on his jacket.

  The Matron drifted nearer, her long skirt passing through dead leaves on the ground. "Indeed. All foreign matter is eroded by the material plane." Her hand hovered a few inches above from Harry's shoulder. "However, there is a curious phenomenon that surrounds you, child, that did not exist around your godfather. A shimmering barrier that fools the world into tolerating your existence. Most … intriguing." The ghostly Unspeakable tilts her head. "The Matron would hear a recounting of your breach through the Veil. In detail." Her imperious tone brooked no dissent.

  Harry gave Lapis an questioning look, which he returned with a helpless shrug. That's just how the Head gets when investigating something that interests her.

  He described the Australian Veil first - how his Invisibility Cloak had billowed like it had a mind of its own, pulling him into the ancient stone gate. Then how he had found himself sprawled inside an enclosed room underground, the stone arch collapsed behind him. When Harry mentioned the Cloak's disappearance, his hand instinctively clutched his chest. Coupled with the Matron's previous words, the realization set in: Dad's heirloom hadn't abandoned him. It had merged with him.

  "Ah." The Matron's slightly upturned lips held the satisfaction of a mystery solved. "The Third Hallow - not merely a better Invisibility Cloak, but a symbiote. To 'hide from death' is to ward off planar rejection like a second skin."

  Harry flexed his fingers, half-expecting to see a tell-tale silvery shimmer. "So it's been protecting me this whole time?" He frowns. "But why would it suddenly throw me into the Veil?"

  A knowing hum. "You already know in your heart, descendant of Peverell. What was your intent in studying the Veil?"

  Harry's eyes widened. He wished to save Sirius, so his Cloak had obliged.

  Amber glowed with orange light, as rays of sunlight peeked through the tree trunks, falling on Sirius' face. Harry gently brushed away some of the dust atop the crystalline surface. "Can we … graft my protection onto him? Share the Cloak's magic?"

  The Matron's closed eyelids twitched as if parsing equations written on darkness. "The Cloak draws from your magic to weave its shield," she intoned, her voice echoing. "A single soul may linger in its pall - no more. To stitch the Third Hallow onto another …" Her translucent fingers twitched. "... may be possible. But your godfather's worries are more than just planar rejection."

  A chill unrelated to ghosts crept up Harry's spine. He'd forgotten the curse that lay hidden beneath Sirius' stillness - Bellatrix's final gift, poisonous even beyond the Veil.

  The Matron's hand rose, her pale finger pointed at Harry's chest. "Time mends all wounds, but time requires breath. Yours would cease long before his corruption lifts."

  "Then … if my Cloak is not enough …" He had a sinking feeling in his stomach.

  The ethereal Unspeakable inclined her head. "Seek the Peverell Cloak of this world. The one worn by James Potter's daughter, Iris Potter."

  Harry's expression turned grim. His hopes had been high after finding Sirius so quickly upon his arrival. For a moment, Harry dared to imagine that he and Sirius would soon step through the Veil, return to their own world, and leave all this dimension-traveling business behind them. Yet destiny, as ever, proved far more complex.