Weft of Power, Warp of Blood: A Tapestry of Desire

Chapter Thirty – Six
The Phoenix Rising

“It’s time to start courting my lady.”

“How will you do it, Master? How will you get to her?”

“For now, via proxy. What better way than to play the hero? Now, Peter,” the name was both caress and order, “bring Yaxley to me. It’s time he did something more useful than drinking my beer.”

“Yes, my lord,” Wormtail oozed. “What else may I do to serve you?”

“Bring the envelope of my hair dated 1967 from the safe and one of the vials of Polyjuice Potion that Severus delivered last week – and warn Yaxley that it would be unwise to waste his time on lunch. The potion does not have a pleasant taste and he’ll probably lose anything he’s eaten.”

Remembering the taste from his own teenaged pranks with Polyjuice Potion when he’d been friends with Sirius, James and Remus – before he’d turned Judas, Wormtail tittered and skulked out of the room.

Two hours later, after receiving orders, a carefully rehearsed script, the potion, and then vomiting said potion up in the corner of Voldemort’s throne room, Nigel Yaxley apparated into an alleyway in Muggle London. He’d been one of the Death Eaters who’d been suspected but never proven in 1981 and now lived what looked to be a boring life of moderate success with a lovely wife, three children, and a life-long career in the Ministry. He also currently looked like a handsome, forty-year-old Tom Riddle.


The tapping of her high heels on the cement sidewalk was different from the cobblestones of Diagon Alley and Hogsmeade. The quick click-click was rather pleasant, she thought as she looked down to admire her new pair of Muggle-made sandals. Not many witches showed their toes, even in the height of summer, so the sight of them gave her a daring little thrill as she walked down the street. Avoiding other pedestrians and trying not to sweat in her new sundress, she made her way to the sewing shop just three streets down and six streets over from The Leaky Cauldron. It was a short walk, but one that always relaxed her.

She could have apparated, but since she hadn’t taken her morning tromp around the meadow Jasmine figured that she probably needed the exercise. It was hot, though. The Ancient Romans believed that this time during the summer when the Dog Star, Sirius, added its heat to the sun’s, making these days a veritable inferno. The thought of Sirius doing anything to affect her days made her growl. He was gone and she was over him. She knew; she told her self twice per day and thrice when she saw Dumbledore. It was really too hot to really exercise or do anything more strenuous than this little jaunt – she hadn’t done sit-ups in days, she gave up when she started sticking to the floor. She would have waited for a cooler day to make the trip to the shop, but Narcissa Malfoy had ordered a new evening trouser suit with beaded trim Jasmine knew she’d bought from the Muggles on Charles Close near Diagon Alley with an “emergency dinner party” deadline.

Her mother, Rose, had shown up at the door that morning, in a pique about some odd thing Jasmine’s father had said or done. Volunteering (it had been closer to demanding) to stay and play with Arielle while Jasmine went to the fabric store with a stern reminder to have Iris go with her, Rose firmly pushed Jasmine out of her own home and started refreshing the wards around the property, hand in hand with Arielle. Jasmine wondered if her father would show up to beg but then snickered. He was probably watching cricket and hadn’t even noticed that Rose was gone.

As she wended her way through the Saturday afternoon shoppers to the less crowded alleys, she felt a tickle, just at the base of her skull. Shaking it off as whimsy or paranoia, she kept walking. The tickle moved to between her shoulder blades. There were still a few people on the street, though not many. She wasn’t necessarily worried about being attacked by some idiot Muggle in the middle of the day with ten people watching, she thought to herself with false bravado. Of course, ‘these are dangerous times’, her great-grandfather repeated in his daily missives; Voldemort’s strength grew daily, the Ministry weakened and with the second Azkaban escape in as many years, people were on edge. Just to be sure, though, she opened her handbag, fingering her wand. She didn’t want to draw it just yet – the Muggles would probably think she was barmy, waving a stick around, but having it in hand made her feel better.

If she hadn’t been so lost in her thoughts of the various Ministry pamphlets touting inferi and abductions, she wouldn’t have missed her turn. If she hadn’t have missed her turn, she wouldn’t have had to whirl about in self-disgust so she could turn down Charles Close. If she hadn’t had to whirl around, she wouldn’t have seen them following behind.

Jasmine recognized him instantly. The lavender-haired woman was harder to place, but seemed familiar. Hands on hips, she waited. She knew she looked fierce but was determined not to make a scene in front of the Muggles – in front of anyone, really. The looks on their faces were priceless - chagrin vied with duty borne of orders as they shuffled forward.

The woman spoke first with false cheerfulness, “Wotcher!”

Jasmine gave a tight, cursory smile of greeting, mostly for the benefit of the two old ladies sitting on their front stairs, holding fans and staring. Without bothering with formalities or pleasantries, looked at Remus Lupin and demanded, “How long has he had you following me?”

He looked at the ground and then into her eyes, “About three days. There’s an alert whenever you leave your house and one of the Order apparates in to follow.”

“Remove it.”

“I can’t do that. It’s built into the protection spells. Plus, they aren’t mine to remove and I’m under orders,” he said calmly.

The woman stood silently observant of the surroundings. Jasmine identified her as the Auror that has searched her house. Cattily, she thought that the pink hair had worked better with her skin tone than this purple. “Why are you here?” she demanded in a furious undertone. “I didn’t know Dumbledore had Scrimgeour’s office at his beck and call now.”

“I have a fair bit of free time between raids,” said the woman with a cheeky grin.

Jasmine snapped, “I’m sure you do.” An Auror in the Order. Bloody brilliant, now Dumbledore could carry through with his threat to have her followed if she didn’t consent to the Tracking Charm he wanted her to wear and she couldn’t officially complain to anyone but her mother as she semi-seriously had threatened to do. Looking at Lupin again, she informed him, “You may leave now. I’m just going into that shop and I’m sure I don’t need a watchdog to purchase a few bits of beaded ribbon.” She pointed at the fabric store on the next block, knowing that she was doing an excellent impression of Narcissa Malfoy excusing servants.

Remus shifted, as though he was ready to automatically move away from someone who loathed werewolves, but the Auror just shot her hip and clomped her boot. “Sorry, not going anywhere. Order orders is orders, you know. You go get your ribbons and we’ll be right here so we can walk you home.”

Jasmine shot them a poisonous glare and announced that could apparate home like a big girl, thanked them both ever-so-sweetly, turned on her heel and marched toward the fabric store with her head held like a queen. Still in high dudgeon, muttering about the gall of her great-grandfather and angry tears pricking her eyes, she prayed that she wouldn’t trip and fall in front of her watchdogs before she made it in and out of the store. Doubting that they would follow her into the store, Jasmine wondered if she could apparate directly from inside, instead of having to walk into the neighboring alley when she was finished. It would irritate Dumbledore to hear that she was missing, though he’d figure out where she was as soon as she showed up in his study to demand that he call off his dogs… his… damn. It was simply not fair. She wasn’t a prisoner and Order members shouldn’t be obligated to follow her about. They all had better things to do – up to and including trying to stop Voldemort. Following her around was a waste of …

It reached out from the alley next to the shop. Skeletal and desiccated, its skin was a mottled gray and its fingernails looked as though it would be able to rend the flesh from her bones. Its robe was tattered linen, just like the veil, she thought to herself in the odd, lucid moment before panic took over. She couldn’t help but shriek; it was coming right for her.

“Run!”

She reacted to the shouted command without thinking but was unsteady in her new shoes. After only a step or two, she lost her balance and heard as much as felt her heel break as she fell in a graceless heap of torn cotton and skin rubbed raw on concrete.

It flowed out of the alleyway, robes fluttering even though there was no hint of a breeze. Its arms reached for her. Under its hood, she could see a gaping maw. It came straight for her.

Every nightmare she’d ever had came crashing to the forefront of her mind. With every foot that it came closer, every drama and trauma that had caused fear or tears rose from the depths of her memory to sear themselves in her brain. Every petty teenaged agony and woman’s deep depression washed over her. All at once, she was in trouble with her mother, punished at school, terrified of Voldemort, newly divorced from Severus, and worried about her sick child. Every parenting mistake she’d ever made was relived in an instant with accompanying guilt, and once again, she was crushed over Sirius’s departure and death. When it was only a yard away, she knew that she would die here, from utter hopelessness. She’d never see her Arielle again. To her shame, she thought that it mightn’t be a bad idea, as horrid as she was.

That thought alone, the single image of Arielle stood out among all others. She concentrated on it even as agony ate through her mind. The Arielle in her mind pointed and screamed something. Words she didn’t understand. She tried to concentrate on them but couldn’t hear through the sobs coming from her own lips.

“Expecto Patronum!”

“Expecto Patronum!”

“Expecto Patronum!”

Three voices called out in varying degrees of panic and repetitiveness and each produced a bright light. Jasmine heard the words come from all around but was frozen in her own mind. All at once, the woman’s voice – the Auror’s, matched what Arielle was shouting, so much that the woman’s voice seemed to come from Arielle’s lips. It broke the reverie.

Instinctively, she turned to defend her child, shouting herself. The spell was not one she’d ever done before – in fact, she’d only read about it in textbooks and the stupid Ministry pamphlets and wasn’t sure she could actually do it – but she was desperate.

“Expecto Patronum!” she all but screamed. Repeating the charm over and over again until light filled her eyes as something white shot from her wand, Jasmine desperately tried to remember the Ministry pamphlet dropped on her doorstep only last week. Still in a panic, an odd part of her brain registered that it was indeed an animal – a textbook patronus.

Through the tears that Jasmine didn’t even know she was crying, she watched the dementor rise into the sky and disappear, the patroni still in pursuit. A sleek rabbit and an indistinct blob of silver mist crowded together with what could only be a duck-billed platypus before disappearing in the haze of bright sunshine. Her own patronus followed at a run. She only got a glimpse of it, but she knew what it was; the sight of is fading into the sun only made her cry more.

The sound of running footsteps jolted her from looking at the sun – trying to see it again. Rough hands grabbed her shoulders, shaking and a chorus of “Are you all right?” and “Can you stand?” and “Did you see that? I told you they were filming that new Tom Cruise movie,” filled the air.

Jasmine felt herself manhandled into standing while Remus directed the Auror – Tonks was her name – to deal with the onlookers and head back to the house. Jasmine was hustled into the very alley the dementor had come from.

Safe from prying eyes, Remus pointed his wand at a good-looking , dark haired man. Jasmine dumbly assumed he was the other wizard who’d cast the Patronus Charm. When Remus spoke to the man, Jasmine was somewhat surprised at his tone.

“Thanks for the help, but I don’t know who you are or why you’re here. I suggest you leave now before I get suspicious of why you were nearby.”

“I…”

Remus looked at Jasmine, who stared up at him with blank eyes. Firmly, he commanded, “Apparate with me.”

She held on and let herself be transported.


They arrived with a BANG in another alleyway filled with rotting garbage and a pair of cats who fled at the sound. As soon as she had her footing on the uneven heels, Remus took hold of her arm and guided her with a simple, “Come this way.”

She obeyed without question.

“Jasmine, do you remember what Dumbledore told you about the Order headquarters?”

She stared at him and tripped on the sidewalk.

“Jasmine! Did he tell you where it is?” Remus demanded, holding her up.

Jasmine thought hard, but her mind seemed to be working in slow motion while chasing dementors and ghostly silver patroni in circles.

“We’re on a street called Grimmauld Place. Do you know where the Order headquarters are? I can’t tell you. I’m not the Secret Keeper. You have to know.”

Grimmauld Place sounded familiar. She remembered something about it. Was she there? Jasmine looked around. The street was filthy and the houses were in sad disrepair. It was hard to see through the haze of tears. She scrubbed them away but flinched when her hand pressed to her face. Her palm stung. The skin was raw from her fall. She stared at it while hurrying to keep up with Remus.

He jerked to a stop and repeated, “Where is Order of the Phoenix Headquarters? Think of it.”

A flash of her great grandfather repeating the addressed came to her. She opened her mouth to speak but Remus tutted her and said, “Just think of it. We’ll be inside in a minute. Don’t want anyone to overhear, right?”

She blinked, nodded and repeated her great-grandfather’s words in her head, ‘The headquarters for the Order of the Phoenix is Number Twelve Grimmauld Place. Now repeat it back so you don’t forget.’ Jasmine remembered that she’d been irritated with the repetition. Did he think she was stupid? Before another thought popped into her fuzzy head, a house grew out of the nothingness of wizard space and the front gate opened with a creak. It was only a moment until they were inside and closing the front door.

“Oh my goodness!” Molly Weasley gasped, rushing around a stack of boxes and trunks, taking in Jasmine’s bedraggled appearance. “What happened?”

“Dementor attack,” said Remus.

“Oh no! Come in for tea and chocolate,” she bustled, taking Jasmine by the arm. “You’ll feel better soon.”

Remus muttered under his breath, “Honestly, Molly, I think she’d rather have a gin and tonic.”

“Just so – come into the kit…”

The door opened with a thud. A pile of boxes tumbled against a far wall, ripping at a set of moth-eaten curtains.

“Oh, damn.” It sounded resigned.

“How dare you bring more filth into this house! Who is this trollop that has invaded my home? Get out! Get out! Get out!”

Voices throughout the house sounded a single chorus. “Tonks!”

“Sorry!” she yelled back and hurried to move the boxes away from the wall. One fell and opened – kitchen bric-a-brac clattered to the floor.

Jasmine jolted out of her numbness and looked around wildly. Her hands and knees hurt and the crash-bang hurt her head. A portrait of an old woman was screaming at them from the wall. Painted spittle flew from around hideously rotted teeth as the portrait glared daggers at her and screeched invectives.

“Vile offal! Blood traitors! Whore!”

Molly Weasley grabbed Jasmine’s arm, shouting over the din, “So sorry, dear. It’s a Black family portrait. It’s stuck to the wall so tightly, we can’t get it off. We’re all leaving today, though. Come in here….”

“Another slut! You’re one of them! You’ll rut with any filthy, disgusting beast and sacrifice the pure world as we know it just for your….”

Without thinking beyond her now booming headache, raw hands, scratched knees and wrenched back that she was suddenly aware of, the screeching old besom, bitchy Narcissa Malfoy and her beads, Voldemort, the dementor, her great-grandfather spying on her, the Order, Aurors and Voldemort’s flunkies following her, the patronus, and the God-damned ruined new shoes, Jasmine lifted her wand, pointed it at the portrait and snarled a single word.

The explosion rocked the house.

Amid screams, yells and Jasmine’s babble of immediate regret – and ducking for cover, the front door opened yet again.

With three wand flicks, boards stood in the hole in the wall for support, the dust was cleared and a Silencing Spell was placed on everyone in the house. Dumbledore surveyed the damage in the foyer then looked into the eyes of every person there before saying quite calmly, “Redecorating before we leave? Turpentine might have been easier. I do hope, though, that there was no one in the pantry when the wall came down?”

Molly gaped and rushed through the door, into the kitchen.

Forgetting the shame of her utter loss of control, rage again filled Jasmine. She marched up to Dumbledore and started her diatribe, “How dare you have me followed? This whole mess is your fault and your fault alone. If you hadn’t....”

No words came from her lips, though they were moving. She silently shrieked in outrage and frustration. The room was silent, though ten people stared in varying degrees of disbelief.

Holding up a single finger, Dumbledore said, “One moment, little flower.” He looked at Molly who was standing through the hold in the wall, looking out with her hands on her hips and a severe expression. “Molly, would you be so kind as to make a pot of tea, please? I think we could all use some.” Of Tonks, who was trying valiantly to blend in with the walls (ugly calico print and all), he asked, “Would you please set things to rights, please – without the portrait?” He shook his head and said, “I really don’t know why Sirius didn’t remove the wall in the first place.” Tonks saluted with a grimace and tugged her wand form her back pocket. “Jasmine, Remus,” he looked at each of them the held his hand toward an open door where Harry Potter stood gaping, “join me.”

Jasmine glared and limped into the room, past the Potter boy – who’d grown since the last time she’d seen him. Now he, like everyone else, was taller than she. The thought made her growl – silently. With a wave of her hand, she lit every candle in the room and walked to the fireplace to stand in what she perceived would be a position of power as the focal point of the room.

Dumbledore beckoned Remus and Potter inside, closed the door and asked with a half smile, “Did you know that butterflies cannot fly if their body temperature is less than eighty-six degrees?”

The question did exactly as he’d planned – it threw her, for just a moment before she glared and turned around to assiduously ignore him. It was a childish expression of pique, but it was all she had, short of a rude hand gesture that wouldn’t be prudent, all things considered.

Listening to Dumbledore remove the Silencing Spell from Remus alone, Jasmine fumed and stared at the stubby black candle on the marble mantle. The light it gave was desultory at best and the candlestick was insipid-verging-on-ugly. Squat and made of a dirty looking metal that was probably more dull brass than gold, the only reason anyone would keep the thing was if it was an antique – though she probably would have tossed it in the attic, age and value be damned.

Dismissing the candle and looking up, she saw a mirror that reflected the room, but oddly enough, not herself. She could feel the tears of rage welling and unsuccessfully willed them away with a deep breath. Deciding that it was probably a good thing she couldn’t see herself with a red nose, clenched jaw and watery eyes, she studied the room’s reflection. Through the mirror, she saw another, much larger mirror standing in the corner. She sniffed but didn’t turn around; the Black family had a mirror fetish, did they? Not surprising, Sirius was arrogant, vain berk, even when he was a teenager.

Ignoring Remus Lupin’s monologue of her adventures and attitude this morning behind her, Jasmine concentrated on the mirror. While the mirror above the mantle was unusual in that none of the people in the room were reflected in it, she wasn’t really shocked by the odd object. Wizards had been manipulating mirrors for centuries. Wondering what it did – unable to ask and loath to ask to have her silence lifted, Jasmine concentrated on the mirror, willing it to perform its function. The surface shimmered.

One by one, faces faded in and out of view. Through the headache that seemed to prevent most coherent thought, Jasmine realized that all of the people and animals the mirror showed were dead. People appeared in the mirror, one right after the other, as though they were standing in queue on the other side of a window, ready to peer through at whoever had given the command. Some she barely knew but had respected from school – most of those had been killed in the first war with Voldemort. Some were pets long passed – some barely remembered, others cherished friends. Other people she\'d loved deeply. Her grandfather’s image blew her a kiss. She smiled and blew a half kiss back, forgetting her pique in favor of her memories just for a moment. A small part of her mind reasoned that it wasn’t so many people. She was young and wizards lived for a long time – unless they were brought low too soon by idiots or arseholes like Voldemort.

She was glad for her enforced silence when she saw the last images – she even peeked around just to make sure the gasp that echoed in her head didn’t sound in the room. First the dog, then the man faded into view, but they were the same -fading in and out of each other, then back again. They were just images in the mirror, but they hurt more than all of the other memories of the dead combined. Her tears started when she saw the dog. She missed him even more than the man. The flash of silver-white that had galloped from her wand to defend her had been him; a perfect copy; just his size, bearlike and short-muzzled with shaggy fur and floppy ears. It had been silver - but like Sirius, it had been running in the opposite direction the last time she saw him.

Jasmine’s tears weren’t slow and pretty and ladylike. They dripped down her cheeks and nose and neck. Her nose ran and stuffed up and her complexion flushed an unattractive mottled red. Giving up, she plunked on to the hearth rug, heedless of the audience and the contents of her purse spilling onto the hideous, scorched rug. Lost in her tears, her hurt knees, skinned hands, terrible headache, outrage at the dementor and the invective screaming portrait, her own loss of control and him, she didn’t feel herself lifted into her great-grandfather’s lap, but instinctively cuddled into his warmth and distinctive scent.

“Ah, my little flower, the great Euripides tells us to ‘waste not fresh tears over old griefs’,” he said quietly and dug into one of his many pockets for a handkerchief. “The mirror shows us people that we love. It doesn’t show us pain. Remember your love for those you saw.”

Shaking her head hurt but she did it anyway. She didn’t love him. She didn’t.

“Without love, we’re naught but empty shells. Why cry?” he asked and waved his hand, lifting the Silencing Spell.

Her first sound heard was a sniffle and sob. “It’s everything. It’s the dementor and that woman and ….” She choked on the words before she could say more. “It was…it was a dog. It was him…”

Remus spoke in a low tone behind them, “I think she’s talking about her patronus.”

She didn’t see, but felt the question from Dumbledore as she cried.

Remus continued, “It looked like Sirius.”

“I see. Her patronus is a dog, I presume?” Dumbledore’s arms tightened around her.

Jasmine curled into a tight ball, rocking back and forth, keening softly, “It was a dog, it was my dog. It was Sirius.”

It felt like hours that her great-grandfather held her. Eventually, her sobs petered into soft hiccoughs and sniffles as she absently traced the arch, lamp and tulip pattern of the rug with her wand. Dumbledore and Remus were having a quiet conversation with Harry Potter about classes or extra lessons or some such to do with self defense. She just sat, blank minded, in the cradle of Dumbledore’s arms – something she hadn’t done since her divorce. Her face felt swollen and tight and her head felt even worse than it had before. She didn’t want to catalogue her aches and pains, but some were demanding to be noticed. Stretching out her leg, she must have grunted because Dumbledore took notice.

“Harry, please ask Mrs. Weasley for a general pain relieving potion, a piece of chocolate and a glass of water. I think young Jasmine here could use them.”

She tried to protest but was shushed as Potter left the room. Allowing it, still too tired and sore and shocked by her own outburst of emotion, Jasmine sat still, except for absently tracing of the arch woven into the carpet with her wand tip while waiting. Dutifully, she drank both the potion and the water when they were presented. Embarrassed at having a hero fetch and carry for her, she thanked the boy.

He mumbled, “You’re welcome” and was turning back to his chair when Dumbledore stiffened.

Leaning forward so Dumbledore had more freedom (and so she could stand up to escape if he let go) Jasmine looked at Dumbledore. He was concentrating on something in Potter’s hand.

“What, exactly, is that, Harry?”

Potter made a motion to tuck the thing away but seemed to resist and held it out. “It’s a mirror that my dad used to talk to Sirius and Remus with.”

“A Contact Compact?” Dumbledore directed his question behind her; Jasmine assumed it was to Remus.

She allowed her eyes to wander the room, ignoring the conversation happening behind her. She slid to the floor, nibbled the chocolate and tucked her feet up, resting her arms atop her knees. Her hand, used to tracing the pattern of the rug, absently waved the pattern in the air. Fiddling with her wand gave her fingers something to do as her hand waved aimlessly. The big mirror caught her eye again. The potion was helping her with headache, but it was making her feel drowsy.

The male voices dulled into a low hum behind her as she looked into the mirror. She was grateful that she at least had a reflection in this one. As Jasmine stared, her reflection stayed the same – but Dumbledore’s did not. Slowly, his reflection turned into another man. He wore a ragged black robe and had long black hair. She couldn’t see his face but could tell he was young; there were no visible wrinkles on his hands or neck and his hair had no silver. He was barefoot but wearing what looked like those Muggle jeans that she found so attractive with a lightweight robe. She watched the mirror, captivated but not sure why. When he turned to face the mirror, she understood. He had a wicked grin in a handsome face. She should have known. Her day had been full of him. He was what she wanted right then, and the mirrors had given him to her

High above her head, the ugly black candle hissed and sputtered. Her wand, still moving aimlessly through the air, created a glowing trail, mimicking the arch of the carpet. So intent on the mirror, she saw neither.

“Jasmine!” Her great-grandfather tugged her shoulders sharply.

A pinprick of bright light appeared in the center of the woven arch on the carpet.

Jolted from her reverie, Jasmine stared at him. “Wha…?”

“What are you doing?” Dumbledore asked as though he had caught a child with her hand in the proverbial cookie jar.

“Nothing!” Jasmine replied. She felt ashamed and incompetent, though didn’t know why.

“You’re summoning someone through the Ghirodes Arch in the carpet.” He made the statement an accusation.

Offended, she said “I’m not summoning any…”

Dumbledore tugged her off of the rug, twisted her around again to see the glowing pattern in midair and pronounced, “There!” and then pointed to the candle and again said, “There! Who were you thinking of, Jasmine?”

“I…”

The light rose from the arch on the scorched carpet and hung in the air. Dumbledore had his wand in hand and pointing at the light in an instant. Remus and Harry followed suit. Confused, Jasmine was the last to raise her wand.

“You were thinking of Sirius and waving your wand around, weren’t you?” he demanded.

The light pulsed and grew.

“Yes!” she snapped. “But I didn’t summon him!” Jasmine had apprenticed with a Persian rug maker for three months when she was younger, just as her mother and grandmother had done. She knew they could be complex magical objects, though she rarely enchanted hers to do more than move through woven or hooked scenes. She couldn’t really fathom how a rug could summon a dead person – nor did she really want to. It sounded too close to creating inferi. Jasmine wasn’t sure what would be worse – having an inferius in the drawing room or seeing Sirius again.

As Dumbledore said the name, the arch became brighter and the pinprick of light grew, rapidly multiplying in size.

Looking infuriated, Dumbledore looked at Harry Potter, “You, too, I assume?”

Obviously confused, the boy’s mouth was hanging open.

They all watched the light grow, dimming as it rose higher into the air. It stopped when it was chest high, then stretched itself into a more recognizable shape.

Keeping a sharp eye on the thing in front of the fireplace, Dumbledore said, “This is more than Jasmine could do by herself without knowing how. Harry, have you been hoping Sirius would appear, just now?”

Jasmine didn’t know if she ought to feel vindicated or offended that Dumbledore didn’t think she could have accomplished the spell herself. Neither feeling could overcome the terrifying sense of dread she felt at the prospect of seeing Sirius again – dead or alive. The bright light was causing her head to hurt even more, so she closed her eyes. She tried to convince herself that if she couldn’t see it, it wasn’t happening.

Wand out and eyes on the… thing, he nodded with a blush. “I saw him in here,” he waved his small mirror, “and was just kind of wishing he’d come back.”

In moments, it was human shaped. It was as transparent as a normal ghost, but glowed more and had no discernable features. Ghosts seemed to just be transparent people. This thing was… silvery though with each passing moment gained more human-like coloring.

“Harry, Jasmine, summoning a shade through the carpet hurts, I’m told. Binding a soul to the candle burns the soul like hellfire,” Dumbledore explained with sadness. “I don’t know the spell to release him back into oblivion once he fully enters this plane of existence.”

Feeling both irritated and guilty for something she didn’t think she did, Jasmine ground out, “Then get rid of it before it is fully on ‘this plane of existence’.”

“We can’t. I don’t know how,” said Remus from his place next to Harry.

Sirius’s face pulled and stretched and finally emerged from the blank head. His hair both grew from the bald pate and materialized the length it was on the day he’d died. It became obvious that he was completely naked and Jasmine couldn’t help but stare while she panicked.

“Blow out the candle!”

“The candle only binds, it doesn’t summon.”

“Then destroy the rug,” she snapped. Clearly these people were simple. Wasn’t it obvious? The man was dead. He ought to stay that way. He ought to stay away from her. She didn’t think she could stand to see him fade away to nothingness once they figured out how to banish the shade without pain. It would be like he died all over again.

“Doing that could destroy Sirius’s soul,” Remus said.

Jasmine thought he sounded rather wistful, as though he wanted to see Sirius again – as though he wanted his friend to be in pain, if only for a moment, just so he could see him again.

“He’s dead! Let him rest in peace.”

“Just because he’s dead, doesn’t mean he’s not here, though! Look! He could be a ghost. We could get him back!” said Harry, pointing.

Jasmine couldn’t bear to look at the boy. He was distraught. Sirius had been his uncle or some such thing. She tried to be patient when she said, “He’s not a ghost, he’s dead.”

She was so busy looking at Harry Potter that she missed it when Sirius’s shade opened his eyes.

“I’m not dead,” he said and looked at Dumbledore and continued in a voice that made Jasmine’s insides melt, “I’m just on the other side of the veil, but I’m not dead and neither is anyone else that’s been shoved through in the past thousand years.”

“Fascinating,” was all Dumbledore said.

Remus pushed forward, “How do we get you out?”

“Damned if I know but hurry it up, if you will. Jasmine and I still have to have a chat about last year.”

Jasmine bolted.


*************

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