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

Chapter Thirty – Seven
The Phoenix in all his Glory

“Not dead?” Dumbledore asked, as though not quite believing it.

Harry didn’t think Dumbledore even noticed when the lady left until he opened the door and gestured to Tonks who was already following the fleeing redhead. When Sirius affirmed his statement, Dumbledore thought for a long moment then announced, “I believe a trip to the Department of Mysteries is in order.”

“What will that accomplish, other than making it easier for the Ministry to arrest me?”

“My dear boy, they can’t arrest you; you’re dead,” Dumbledore smiled beatifically at Sirius who was still hovering over the carpet.

Harry spluttered until Dumbledore looked at him over the rim of his glasses. “But he just said…”

“I know what he said, Harry, but the Ministry does not know this newest development.”

“Well… er… good point.”

Dumbledore raised a single eyebrow over his half-moon glasses but his eyes twinkled, “Why, thank you.”

Though nothing in his tone had suggested censure or insult, Harry blushed, closed his mouth and looked down into the locked chinoise vitrine by his side. He peered at an ugly locket, probably stolen or cursed or both, for a moment before turning his attention back to Sirius.

Sirius asked, “Where did Jasmine go and why are we going there to the Ministry?”

“Jasmine went home. I would like to have a word with Sturgis Podmore about that veil. Now tell me where, exactly, are you?”

Sirius looked at Dumbledore again, “Podmore is still in Azkaban – and I want to go see her.” When Dumbledore waved him off, Sirius sighed and said, “I really don’t know. It’s dark and I haven’t left the area to go exploring much.”

Harry asked, “Why not?”

“Harry! I kept hoping that one of you would decide to use the mirror and rug. I didn’t want to miss it when you bothered to get me out of here. It took you long enough,” he said reproachfully to Remus.

“Sorry. I thought you were dead,” replied Remus, abashed.

“Killed by my bitch of a cousin? I don’t bloody well think so. I told you how I’d die,” Sirius said with a smirk, looking at Remus.

Blushing, Remus replied, “Sirius, I don’t think that’s really appro…”

“Gentlemen – the task at hand?”

“Sorry,” they said in chorus.

Dumbledore turned his attentions back to Sirius. “Is there anything that you see on the other side of that curtain that could suggest a way out?”

Sirius seemed to be looking around, double checking facts that he already knew and the replied, “No, nothing. In fact, several of the other … denizens… have informed me that there is no way out, they’ve all tried, I’d be wasting my time, this is an oubliette – et cetera.”

Musing for a moment, Dumbledore asked, “Can I be sure that if I take the mirror, rug and candle,” when Sirius gave a look of long suffering disgust at the mention of the candle, Dumbledore interrupted himself and said, “relax, dear boy, I won’t do anything to hurt you if I can at all help it. You don’t seem to need to be bound into the candle, so we’ll wait to do it, if possible. Now, if I take these things into the Department of Mysteries, will we be able to summon you again from there?”

“I don’t see why not,” replied Sirius.

“Nor do I. That’s good. I would like to get several more opinions before I try it, though. I would hate to lose you when we may be close to finding a solution to this little conundrum.”

Sirius flashed a grin at Remus and said with no small amount of pride, “I’m a conundrum.”

“You always have been,” said Remus wryly.

“Indeed,” said Dumbledore at the same time and bent over the rug to study the connection between it and Sirius’s feet. Conversationally he asked, “Do all carpets of this type look and act this way?”

Remus and the shade of Sirius both shrugged.

“My mother never told me how it works. She was too busy disturbing my father’s final rest every night at dinnertime.”

“You father did not fall through the veil in the Ministry, correct?” Still bent over, Dumbledore verified though he already knew the answer.

“He died in bed, alone and miserable. Well, not alone - my mother was with him, but the miserable still counts,” said Sirius with a wry look and hard tone. It looked odd, seeing the wallpaper through his grimace.

“Indeed.” Dumbledore mused under his breath and stood. “So what can we do to get you out of this? First, how does the carpet work?” He opened the small sarcophagus on the mantle and scooped a handful of Floo Powder, knelt next to the carpet, and tossed the powder into the grate and called, “Three Flowers – Iris!”

“Papa?” It was only a moment before an old woman appeared on the other side of the green flame.

“Iris, what do you know about enchanted Persian carpets?”

“Formally? Only what old Anatolian Akbar taught during those summer apprenticeships that mother sent me off to before I got married, just as his sons did with Rosie and Jasmine.”

“Please come through… and, Iris, I need you to be discreet, please.”

“Mhmph, aren’t I always?” the lady said, and pointed her wand out of the fireplace – presumably locking the door of her shop. She stepped through the fireplace and brushed herself off impatiently.

Sirius leaned over to Remus and asked in an undertone, “Why didn’t he just bring Jasmine back?”

Remus whispered back, “Because she ran in terror the second she saw you?”

Dumbledore looked at both men quellingly and said, “As knowledgeable as Jasmine is, Iris has more experience in the field and an even greater knowledge of fabric and carpet making than Jasmine. She will always be my greatest resource for such things.” He hugged his daughter and said, “Welcome to the headquarters of the Order of the Phoenix, dear. I know I don’t have to remind you to forget everything and everyone you see here?”

Too busy staring at the transparent Sirius, Iris nodded and hummed her assent.

Dumbledore distracted her by introducing Harry. When obligatory handshakes were finished, Dumbledore introduced Sirius and gave an overview of the situation.

Without commenting on the lack-of-death and with more force than was actually necessary, Iris demanded “So you’re the one that left my granddaughter in tears?”

“I’m trying to fix it, ma’am,” said Sirius. It was odd, seeing him blush. His cheeks glowed more than the rest of him.

“See that you do,” instructed Iris. “I’m tired of the bad temper.” Her jeweled spectacles sparkled in the candle light.

“Iris, stop interrogating the boy and tell me about that rug, please,” Dumbledore interrupted as Iris opened her mouth to speak again.

She sniffed in pique and directed her eyes to the carpet. Actions defying her apparent age, Iris knelt easily down next to the carpet. “It’s Turkish – very old Sunni Moslem by the color and patterns – no green dyes used in the threads or animals in the pattern. From the look of the knot work, it’s probably from Gördes in Western Turkey. It was likely made by old Akbar’s ancestors, from the shape of the tulips.” Her words were quick and confident. She was in her element and was happy to show her expertise without asking questions to distract from the task at hand – she knew her curiosity would be assuaged later.

“What, exactly does the carpet do? How does it work” asked Dumbledore.

“Other than what it appears to do? I don’t know. I didn’t enchant it. You’ll want a Charms Master to tell you how that was done. All I can tell you is that it’s a long, draining process that involved ritual prayer, magic and very slow weaving. Old Akbar never showed me. As I recall, he said that making rugs like this was a dying art but not really worth resurrecting,” said Iris, studying the pile of the rug underneath Sirius’s floating feet and studiously ignoring the shade.

Dumbledore turned to Remus, “Floo Filius Flitwick. I’d like his expertise on carpet making charms as soon as possible, please.”

Sirius asked, “Another person…is that really wise?”

Dumbledore looked over the rim of his glasses and said, “The professors at Hogwarts are far more than simply teachers of children. They are a valuable resource to me as experts in their fields. Filius Flitwick is one of the most knowledgeable, powerful and qualified Charms Masters alive today.”

Remus asked, “Do you want to meet him here or at the Ministry?”

“Here, please. I don’t want to go to the Ministry without a clear idea of how this is possible and how we can use it to our advantage.”

As Remus called Hogwarts, Dumbledore asked Iris about the rug itself.

“At first glance, it’s a standard Anatolian kilim used by Moslem men. See here,” she pointed to the arch woven into the carpet, “this is a…”

“Kilim?”

“A pile rug, as opposed to just a towel or a clean piece of cloth or newspaper which could also be used to pray on.” She explained, “You see the mihrab, the arch? Its representative of the prayer niche in a mosque, and should always point towards Mecca.” Iris outlined the arch with her finger. When she lifted her hand, it came away dirty. With a huff, she waved her hand over the rug and most of the soot and scorch marks disappeared. It left the rug looking even more dilapidated and worn. The once bright red, blue and yellow colors were faded and the ivory looked more tan than anything else, but it was certainly cleaner and easier to see what Iris had been talking about. “Being that this thing is filthy negates its use by any Moslem as a sajada.”

“Sajada?” asked Remus.

“A prayer rug. Old Akbar would be rolling around in his grave if he knew this had been walked on or used in front of a fireplace.”

Dumbledore closed his eyes then opened them to look around the room. “It is indeed pointed east. Why does being dirty negate use?”

“The mihrab in a mosque and here on the rug is called the ‘gateway to paradise’; no Moslem could use it dirty– it simply isn’t done; I don’t know why. Expensive silk rugs like this one are too much of a luxury to ruin for most. Most aren’t even used for prayer. Cotton is less expensive.”

“A ‘gateway to paradise’?” repeated Dumbledore, interrupting Sirius’s next words. “I think that should be significant here.”

“This is hardly paradise,” said Sirius wryly.

“I understand, though apparently it isn’t ‘nothing’, either,” replied Dumbledore.

Sirius tucked his legs up and sat, tailor fashion, a yard above Iris’s head and studied the rug; the candle on the mantle sparked but settled when Sirius did. He said, “I remember my mother saying that it had been brought over from Turkey by my father’s great-grandfather after a safari or trip to Egypt or some such jaunt. I wouldn’t be surprised if it’s been in front of the hearth ever since.”

“Many rugs were imported from the Middle East during the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries. Orientalia was very fashionable then, I’m told. I remember Old Akbar cackling and rubbing his hands together any time a tourist walked up saying they ‘loved his things and did he know it was so popular and exotic in England’,” Iris explained to Sirius.

“Madam, it wasn’t fashion. He used it to coerce those lost souls that had died intestate into signing over their assets to him.”

Dumbledore coughed, shook his head and said, “Yes well, we’ll figure this out, Sirius – with none of your assets involved. In the meantime, could the original intention of the prayer rug be part of the enchantment?” asked Dumbledore, determined to figure out how the thing worked.

Just then, the fireplace roared to life from the tiny flame Remus had left for Flitwick’s arrival. Jumping back with a speed that belied any idea of age or arthritis, Iris landed several feet away with a thud. Harry helped her up immediately. After thanking Harry, Iris clamped her hands on her hips and snapped, “Filius Flitwick, you always did use too much Floo Powder. It’s just wasteful.”

After squeaking in surprise at the words and almost dropping the large book tucked under his arm, Flitwick recovered quickly and bowed. He said, “Miss Dumbledore, how lovely to see you again.”

“It’s ‘Mrs. Finnerty’ and you well know it,” Iris snapped just before leaning over to kiss Flitwick on the cheek. “How are you, Filus?”

He grinned and bowed gracefully. “Very well, thank you for asking, Iris. You’re looking as lovely as ever. How are you?”

Dumbledore interrupted with a raised eyebrow, “Filus, we are in a small bind, could you please share some of your expertise?”

Tapping the book under his arm, Flitwick said, “Of course, Headmaster. You know that I am both happy to help in any small way that I can and deeply honored that you called upon me.”

Bowing formally, a gesture that Flitwick seemed to be tickled over, Dumbledore said, “You are a true master of your art and I not only admire your knowledge, I must ask for your expertise in the matter of a charmed object.”

Beaming, Flitwick said, “Lupin said there was a matter of a charmed rug. May I see it?” Looking around then directly under his feet, he seemed slightly startled to note that he was standing on such an object and scuttled off of it.

From above Flitwick’s head, Sirius discreetly coughed.

“Sirius Black!” He whipped out his wand and pointed it directly at Sirius.

“Yes, sir,” replied Sirius, looking slightly abashed. Everyone that knew Sirius knew that Charms had been one of his favorite classes in school and dotty little Professor Flitwick had certainly been his favorite teacher. Faced with Flitwick’s fear and loathing, Sirius opened his mouth to protest.

“Filius,” said Dumbledore, drawing Flitwick’s attention, “Sirius didn’t do any of it. Pettigrew did, and you’re in the Black family home.”

“Well, I… er…”

Harry stepped forward, “Hi, Professor.”

“Mr. Potter, what are you…?”

“I live here... sort of,” replied Harry, looking up at Sirius.

“But… your parents!” replied Flitwick, scandalized.

“Professor Flitwick, Sirius didn’t do it,” said Harry. “Wormtail - I mean Peter Pettigrew betrayed them and killed all those people. Not Sirius.”

“But….”

“It’s true, Filius. I shall give you all of the pertinent details concerning those events later,” interrupted Dumbledore. “I have a mystery for you – Sirius, as ghostlike as you see him, claims that he is not dead.”

“Not a ghost, eh?” asked Flitwick looking at the carpet then Sirius. When Sirius shook his head, Flitwick said, “Soul summoned through the arch in the rug, I’ll wager.” He peered into the candle and waved his hands up at it. The candle flickered and flared. “And not bound into the candle yet. You are not in pain?” Flitwick looked Sirius over from head to silvery toe, obviously expecting to see agony where there was none, then wrinkled his nose and looked around. He bore the look of a goblin deep in thought about something very interesting though not very pleasant. Summoning a short footstool from a corner, Flitwick settled himself up in and flipped his book open. He magically riffled through pages, apparently skimming the words and conjuring ribbon bookmarks to save several pages. Several times, he peered over the book to look at the carpet or up at Sirius before delving back into the book.

Perching next to Flitwick, Iris said, “Papa thought the enchantment might have something to do with the design of the carpet. It’s a prayer rug and the arch symbolizes a gateway to heaven.”

“I quite agree. Most dead people – or their shades, rather, don't want to be drawn to the gateway in the rug and bound in the flame.” He tapped the book with a short, stubby finger. “Messrs. Weaver and Kraus have interviewed several shades similarly bound and have concluded that it is rather unpleasant. Your average shade will avoid the gateway, thus requiring the candle to bind him to the flame.”

“But why did Sirius want to be summoned through the rug?” asked Iris, looking at Flitwick and Dumbledore.

“I’m right here. You could just ask me,” groused Sirius.

“Indeed you are,” replied Iris, unrepentant then added with utmost formality, “why did you want to be summoned through the rug?”

Sirius replied with equal formality, “So we could have this fascinating conversation and this lot,” he gestured to Dumbledore, Harry and Remus, “could get me out of here!”

Iris nodded with pursed lips. She looked suspicious.

“Mr. Black is here of his own free will, thus does not need to be bound,” said Flitwick with a flutter of excitement, obviously warming to the mystery.

Harry stepped forward to ask, “Excuse me professor, but why did the mirrors work to bring him through?”

“Oh, an excellent question, Mr. Potter. You see, a mirror, specifically a Requiem Mirror helps to concentrate focus and intent. That is the strongest half of the magic, the spell and wand movement are less important than the intent – which is why wandless and silent hexing magic is possible. It was not the mirror that pulled him through but the concentrated intent, focused by the mirror coupled with the rug.”

Harry nodded his understanding.

“I believe that both wandless and silent magic play an important part of sixth year Defense classes.” Flitwick leaned in conspiratorially and said, “Every good duelist knows that….”

Dumbledore cleared his throat.

“Ah yes, terribly sorry. Yes, the mirrors concentrate intent and focus so the carpet can work more effectively and summon the correct person.”

“Can a ghost or a shade who wants to be summoned bring more of themselves?” asked Remus.

Flitwick looked confused.

“The rug summons a soul from the other side, correct?” asked Remus. When Flitwick nodded, Remus continued, “Can the soul bring along his body, too?”

Flitwick thought for a moment, flipped out the book again to check something that didn’t seem to be there, then said, “No, the deceased does not have his body with him to take anywhere. The soul is in the beyond, the body has been interred, correct?”

Several voices piped up, but Harry’s was the loudest. “His body went through the veil, too. Nothing was buried.” His voice caught when he said bitterly, “We didn’t even get to have a funeral.”

Remus clapped Harry on the back and said, “If you look at the bright side, the whole idea of a funeral might have been premature.”

Flitwick looked at Sirius, his dark eyes sharp and demanding, when he asked, “The veil? The Veil of Death? The Cuirtíní lena Marú? At the Ministry?”

Dumbldore delayed Sirius’s answer with a question. “What is it called - officially?”

“The Cuirtíní lena Marú. I thought it was a myth. No one outside of the Department of Mysteries has seen it in five hundred years. I’ve only read about it in an old book of Irish law that was so full of Biblical fire and brimstone that I discounted it almost entirely.”

Dumbledore murmured under his breath, “She did say it was old.”

When Sirius nodded, Flitwick repeated in wonder, “Gone through the Cuirtíní lena Marú.” He shook his head, as though clearing out old indoctrinations and muttered, “Not dead…You took your body with you when you…didn’t die?”

Sirius slapped at his chest and hips then winced. “It feels like it.”

“Not dead and corporeal….” Thinking for a moment and then reviewing the book, Filius muttered about the specific spells and enchantments that were put on the carpet. “During weaving red weft strands and double knotting Gördes style double knots… weaker when torn… internod… second red weft knot … portula… foramen-foraminis….” He looked at the rug carefully then back to the text, flipping pages quickly. “Which one is the weft?” he asked Iris.

She wove her fingers together, wiggling the ones that indicated the weft of the fabric and started to explain, only to be interrupted by Flitwick curt thanks and shuffling of pages.

“Teges… budak… and the holes… mending, mending… yamamak - mending!” Flitwick jumped up. The book fell to the floor. Flitwick scrambled to retrieve it while saying in a high, excited voice, “Iris, if you can fix it, we can redo the enchantments atop the ones that are already there. It would be a bigger gateway! There’s really nothing to stop him from stepping right through,” he paused for just a moment, then added, “I think.”

“Of course I can fix it – find the pages so I can read the enchantments as well,” she instructed before she settled back down on the ottoman and waved her wand to Summon a basket of yarn and several long, curved needles. “Old Akbar never did this part of it – more people bought non magical rugs than enchanted ones so he spent all of his time fleecing tourists. He wove and enchanted a few rugs with moving pictures ‘for the sake of his ancestors and the few magical tourists that came in looking for something special’. Said it wasn’t profitable to make something that no one could afford to buy. The enchantments are difficult,” she warned, looking at Flitwick.

Standing as straight and tall as he possibly could, Flitwick looked Iris in the eye and said, “Dear Mrs. Finnerty, it’s what I do.”

“Of course, Mr. Flitwick,” said Iris with a small sniff of pride. “However, most other enchantments performed on fabric must be done by the weaver. If you really think that you could…”

Dumbledore stepped in and said, “Perhaps if Filius were to feed you the threads while he recited the incantations, he could be viewed partly as weaver himself, and if you were to be touching Filius while you worked, you could, too, be considered to be charming the rug? That way, you would both be free to do what you do best- and in a timely fashion?”

Several minutes later, those in the room settled into place and began the quiet murmur they would continue for several more hours. Iris and Flitwick sat together on the floor – both had deemed it the cleanest and safest place to work. Iris silently mended the holes in the rug with her needle, thread and silk knots made by her still nimble fingers while Flitwick waved his wand over the new threads and slowly forming fabric. Harry sat with Remus on the newly doxy-free sofa while Sirius hovered in front of them – high above the heads of the two working on the rug. Harry quietly told Sirius about the events leading up to the adventures at the Ministry – paying particular attention to blaming Snape, which Sirius was ready to believe. Remus was the quiet voice of reason, dissuading both of the others to avoid rushing out for murder and gently moving the subject to Harry’s O.W.L. results. Remus relayed a summer’s worth of Order business and Ministry gossip and news, including the details of the pamphlets circulating the Wizarding World about Inferi and kidnappings. Sirius told them about the quiet, meditation time he’d had and about the odd people residing in the nowhere that was behind the Veil of Mysteries. Dumbledore stood in front of the Requiem Mirror, silently gazing into its depths for an hour.

The hour after that, Dumbledore sat down next to Remus on the couch and told Sirius about the plan to relocate. When Sirius expressed his approval, Dumbledore told him about the wall and portrait.

Sirius had nothing to say on the subject but looked as though he was thinking hard about it.

“Why didn’t you just take the wall out in the first place,” Harry asked Dumbledore curiously, as though the question had been weighing on him for hours.

“Because it was Sirius’s wall and Sirius’s mother,” replied Dumbledore. The answer seemed so obvious when he put it that way.

Again, the men looked at Sirius.

He sounded pensive when he answered the unspoken question. “I guess I kind of thought that I deserved everything she was yelling at me. That and it never really felt like my house. Didn’t seem like I should change it drastically.”

Harry opened his mouth to ask another question but Remus held up his hand forestalling it. They lapsed into silence.

Every few minutes, one person or another would look across the room to watch the slow progress of Flitwick and Finnerty. Though tempers frayed like the delicate carpet, their hands never stopped working. For five interminable hours, they worked with no respite, no conversation, and no interruption – until they finished.

On an exhale of pain and weariness, Flitwick stood, knees creaking, and said, “Mr. Black.”

Sirius whirled around, the silver glow blurred his features as he moved. His feet were flat on the floor of nothing when he settled.

Wand at the ready, Flitwick said, “I’m going perform the summoning spell. You should feel an irresistible urge to come through the gateway. Let the spell pull you but concentrate on bringing all of yourself.”

Strangely silent, Sirius only nodded and settled closer to the carpet and closed his eyes. He seemed to be holding his breath.

Flitwick twitched the carpet so the mihrab was pointed directly east, toward Mecca, as dictated by tradition. Then he slowly and carefully traced the outer border of the tulips that had been the trademark of the Akbar family for centuries. Circling the woven lantern and archway, he concentrated on Sirius’s face. Nothing happened. Looking frustrated, Flitwick began an audible chant in Latin.

Minutes later, Sirius was brighter. His color was less silver and more colorful. His robes were turning a distinct gray. His flesh was pinkish but when Dumbledore shot him a questioning look, Sirius shook his head.

Trying not to interrupt Flitwick, Dumbledore murmured, “Come through the gateway, Sirius. You’re part way through now.”

“I’m trying, but I can’t. There isn’t a tangible gateway – it’s just a pulling feeling in my gut. Right now, I’ve been pulled as far as I can go!”

Dumbledore looked at Flitwick. In a low, unobtrusive voice, he asked, “Does the gateway work both ways?”

Without allowing the motion of his wand to stop or his spell to loose momentum, Flitwick shrugged his shoulders.

Dumbledore shoved his sleeve up to his elbows, where they magically stayed. He leaned over the carpet, careful not to interrupt Flitwick’s spell and reached through the carpet and floor as thought it was a pool of water. He looked at Sirius and asked, “Do you see my hand?”

Sirius looked around. His expression became desperate. “No!”

“It’s right in the gateway, Sirius. It should be next to you,” said Dumbldore calmly.

“All I see is the veil. Nothing else,” said Sirius, looking around. “No gateway, no tunnel – and no hand.”

“Try retreating from this room to investigate the area beyond the gateway more thoroughly you should see my hand somewhere there. Try to grab hold of it,” instructed Dumbledore.

For a moment, Sirius looked afraid. “You won’t…”

Dumbledore reassured him, “We will fetch you back if you get lost.”

Sirius nodded and stepped backward. His image became smaller and those in the Grimmauld Place house could see him searching for Dumbledore’s waving arm. At least it looked like it was waving. His hand and arm to his elbow were still out of view as he reached into the gateway in the carpet.

“I don’t see it anywhere,” was the eventual response. He sounded quietly desperate.

“Concentrate on bringing your body to the gateway, Sirius.”

“I am! I don’t really see the gateway, it’s just a feeling. All I can see is this damned veil!”

“Perhaps we should go to the Ministry. It might be easier if we’re physically closer to the Veil itself?” offered Remus.

“That is an excellent suggestion, Remus,” said Dumbledore as he stood up. “Sirius, rejoin us, please.”

Sirius slumped but nodded.

“But how are we going to get in to the Department of Mysteries? They don’t like us much – remember the last time we were there?” asked Harry

Sirius snickered and said, “Hard to forget given the current situation,” he said with a completely straight face that looked so odd with the hideous floral wallpaper showing through it. He thought for a moment and said, “Broderick Bode is dead, we can’t use him.”

Remus replied, “Croaker is iffy.”

“But he’s the only Unspeakable we’ve got,” replied Sirius, wincing. Sapo Croaker’s loyalties had been in question since the mid 1970’s and had never really been clarified.

Dumbledore looked up from his study of the rug and announced, “We’ll have no trouble getting in to the Department of Mysteries.”

“Why not,” asked Sirius.

Dumbledore only looked over the rim of his glasses again.

Remus hesitated for just a moment then pointed at the old man with a serene smile and said, “Dumbledore.”

“Indeed. Now, here is what we are going to do….”

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

As Harry explained to his friends that night, it wasn’t hard getting into the Ministry of Magic when following Dumbledore. People who normally were there to stop the average witch and wizard from going into the Ministry building just seemed to get out of the way when Dumbledore walked by.

Hermione, in particular, had been fascinated when Harry had explained how they’d done it – how Dumbledore had done it. They - meaning Remus, Harry, Flitwick and Dumbledore (Iris had been sent home with strict instructions to not say a word to anyone about it all), had Flooed to the Ministry and gone directly up to the Department of Mysteries where they met a frog like man who let them in to the Death Chamber. The man, Croaker, had stood guard outside the door while they suspended the Requiem Mirror in mid-air and Harry and Remus had held the rug in front of the veil. Flitwick had performed the spell to unlock the gate and summon Sirius. He hadn’t been able to come all the way through – just his shade had again (it was here that Harry had to interrupt himself to explain the events of the afternoon.)

When Ron questioned how Dumbledore’s hand had been damaged, Harry told him that it occurred when things had gotten really weird. He explained that since Sirius still couldn’t get out of the veil, even though they were right next to the veil and he could even hear them on the other side, he hadn’t been able to get his body through. Dumbledore had just stuck his hand through the rug again, but instead of passing through the floor his hand went in to the veil.

When he pulled his hand out, it was black – but he had a fist full of Sirius’s hair and robes. He just tugged him out, as though he was a naughty schoolboy hiding behind a curtain.

Ron asked why they hadn’t done that in the first place. Hermione and Ginny just rolled their eyes.

According to Harry, not even Flitwick or Croaker knew why Dumbledore’s hand had been black when it came out of the Veil of Death – Harry couldn’t remember the Irish name for it, but Sirius’s body had been fine. Flitwick just shrugged and said he’d look into finding the cure for the curse when he got back to Hogwarts. Harry said that Dumbledore didn’t seem to mind that his hand was black; he’d just hugged Sirius like a prodigal son. Then they all came home – Sirius hidden under cover of a hooded cloak, of course. They’d all agreed that it would be best if everyone except the Order still thought Sirius was dead since he was still, technically on the wanted list.

When they’d gotten back to the Grimmauld Place house to shock and questions, all Dumbledore had said after questioning if the group was ready to abandon the house in the morning, was, “That, my dear Molly, is why they call it the Department of Mysteries.”