opus horologium

Disclaimer: All elements of Harry Potter (characters, mythical creatures, spells, scenes, etc.) are properties of J.K. Rowling. As much as I wish I could claim it, it belongs to my queen, THE QUEEN.

Author's note: If it isn't obvious enough, italicized means the character's own thinking. Also, this is the first time I ever decided to write a fan fiction so please spare me.

Chapter 6: The Accomplice

Harry nodded, feeling a lump lodging in his throat. The young man's eyes were once again glazed, distant and cold. He felt sorry for him, reaching for something that's no longer there, yearning for a memory that simply can't be held anymore.

The young man pushed past him, quickly returning to his seat. He drew out an old piece of parchment from the edge of the sofa and hunched towards the table. "What are you doing," asked Harry. The young man's hand moved furiously across the parchment, scribbling words at an impossible speed. His head was bent downward, focused. Harry would have thought Dumbledore had gone insane if he hadn't seen the splotches of water on the paper.

Tears.

"Albus," Harry called, snapping his fingers. "Albus, stop. What are you doing?"

Dumbledore seemed to have forgotten all about Harry. He muttered words underneath his breath, low and grumbling. Harry watched him, unsure of what to do or how to respond to the young man's mood swings. Just as Harry was about to give up and run back to his room, he heard the sound of ripping paper. Dumbledore growled.

"You don't know anything," Dumbledore yelled, flinging the roll of parchment towards Harry. "Look at you, you snivelling little coward. You get stuck here and you act like it's a day to day vacation. You don't even try. You know there's a way out and you don't even do anything to help your situation."

Harry felt his face burn with anger. "How dare you judge me when it's you, it's you who mopes all day in your room and acts like a lunatic. At least I'm not some creepy boy who's so obsessed with the past that I ponder on it day after day. So what if there's a way out? How do you expect me to figure it out when you can't? You think this is easy for me? It's not. All I'm trying to do is to be the best flatmate you can have for the time being. So I'm sorry for not being such a pain in the ass!"

The young man looked incredulous. His mouth was agape and his eyes were wide open. Harry thought he looked humorous if the situation had been different.

Harry looked at the parchment in his hands. "It's a map," Dumbledore grumbled. "It seems useless but then again, I'm not the sharpest man. Maybe you could figure it out." Harry unrolled the parchment carefully. It was the Marauder's map, torn and frayed around the edges, but intact nonetheless.

"Where did you find this," Harry asked.

"This place, this town, whatever it is. It's the spitting distortion of our realities. That map doesn't belong to me, so I'm guessing it's part of yours. I found it several houses over."

"You were out?"

"I'm more outgoing than you know, Mr. Potter. My whereabouts, however, are none of your business."

Harry touched the parchment, settling on the floor. The wood creaked with every motion. "You think it's real," Harry asked, his voice suddenly quiet.

"What reason do I have to believe it isn't? If it's the only hope there is, why would I tell myself it's a lie?" The young man stood wearily. He seemed to have aged significantly. His eyes lost the glimmer it held just moments ago and Harry couldn't help but blame himself for it. "I know why I am here, Mr. Potter. I am dead."

Harry felt his throat constrict at the word. Dead. Is that what he has been all along? And how did Dumbledore know about his own death? Has he seen proof of it? Was it imprinted as a memory? Did he find something else that belongs to Harry, something that could have triggered the idea? What was the map doing in this dimension?

Who activated it?

The room holds too many unanswered question, none of which Harry knew the answer to. Harry let out an exasperated sigh and looked down on the map again.

There's Ron, Harry thought bitterly. And Luna, and Neville, and Ginny. Oh it seems like DA meeting! What are they talking about this time? The footprints formed a circle in the middle of the Great Hall. The place was eerily empty. Probably still under reconstruction.

The footsteps remained in a circle for a long time. When the footsteps began to disperse, Harry's eyes were already tired. Barely any time passed, but after all that happened this morning, Harry was exhausted. Not physically but mentally.

Harry looked at the map again. Ron and Ginny walked towards the Gryffindor common room. Luna walked in circles, stopping every once in a while. Neville was crossing the expanse of the courtyard, probably taking the long route towards the greenhouses located below the two main Bell Towers.

He felt a certain loneliness looking at the map, at the foot prints made by his friends. And then he noticed something. Hermione isn't with them. Harry couldn't help but wonder why. Hermione never missed a DA meeting, even the ones that aren't so significant. She had always been present.

She's out there. She's looking for me, Harry thought.

He stood abruptly. He gathered the map in his hands and stuffed them inside his pocket. "I'm going out, Albus," he called up the stairs. There was no reply. "I think there's still time to buy. I will find the way out of here. She needs me."

Hermione's mind spins blindly in panic. Her heart beats frantically inside her chest. The cell was empty, enveloped by darkness. Where Elder stood moments ago, there was now only empty space. Hermione could hear the wind howling just beyond the quarters.

But other than that, the place was completely quiet. Hermione drew a deep breath, forcing down the fear that crept underneath her skin. She reached for the wand tucked safely in one of her boots and pointed it forward. "Show yourself," she screamed, her voice quivering. "I know you're out there."

A faint snicker echoed from a distance. Hermione felt the hair in her arms rise. The laughter wasn't from someone she recognized. It was low and menacing. "There's no point hiding. You'll have to face me sooner or later," she tried again, firmer this time. She spun around, wand outstretched.

"Alright, you got me," the voice said in a detached tone.

Calculations ran inside Hermione's head. The direction of the voice, the approximate distance. She made mental observations of the hidden enemy. His voice was low and gravelly. The words seemed to have echoed north, at a close range. It wasn't a shout, but his voice was amplified by the closed space in which they both stood.

Hermione heard the sound of footsteps scratching wood. The empty desk. Hermione could picture the man now, his feet dangling from the empty desk at the end of the hall. Then she heard a thud, the sound of falling. The man landed on his feet. Hermione noted the sound was barely audible. The man didn't carry much weight or impact. Hermione stopped short of her track. Whoever this man is, he was confident and precise. His foot hold was light, but his steps were just as calculated as hers. He was careful. And a careful man is a dangerous man; a careful man thinks.

Hermione heard the sound of approaching footsteps and swallowed hard. "My, my, Ms. Granger. You seem to have forgotten, have you? This place doesn't offer any protection of magic. This place disarms magical equipment, renders them useless," the voice mocked.

He's closer, Hermione thought. And he's smart. Hermione could see the outline of the man now. The man was tall and thin, his clothes hanging loosely from his limbs. His head took an angular shape, highlighted with a sharp jaw and a knifelike profile. By the way he stood, he seemed to be limping. The man walked with a regal posture. From what she can see, his hands were empty.

But then again, there were other ways of inflicting pain. He could choke her to death. He could push her down the flight of stairs or simply just twist her neck. Brute force is just as deadly as curses and hexes.

The man stopped a short distance away from her. He must have seen the hilt of the dagger that Hermione gripped with her free hand. He quickly turned his heel and ran.

Hermione chased the man down the flight of stairs, tucking the wand inside her boots. They were no use now. The dagger was what she needed. The man was agile. His footsteps were light and Hermione fought to keep up with him. The man ran around a web of crevasses and prison cells, following some labyrinth Hermione was unaware of. Metal rattled. Rats skittered. The man kept running.

At the final corner, he turned and Hermione couldn't help but smile decisively. The tunnel of cells ends here. She has him cornered. She held the hilt of the dagger close to her chest, preparing herself for an attack. She then took a deep breath and followed him into the dark.

Suddenly the figure leapt at her, hands clamping her mouth. "Hold still if you want to live." It was the same man, with the same gravelly voice. But this time, there was something in it that stopped Hermione from flinching at his grasp. He sounded urgent.

With one hand still clamped at her mouth, the stranger dragged Hermione down an unknown extension of the hall, his other arm trapping Hermione. Hermione heard the click of a door being closed. The man took his hand away from her mouth and pushed her away from him. She stumbled forward, hitting her head against the dirty floor. Hermione felt warm blood trickle down her forehead. Her body seared with pain. She had scraped her elbows and knees on the landing.

"Filthy mudblood," he muttered, brushing his clothes.

Hermione flailed, trying to sit up, but agonizing pain shot from her head down to her neck and forced her back against the cold floor, gasping. She tries to look up at the man, but her vision is blurred by blood. "Who are you," she asked hoarsely.

The man ripped some clothes that hung behind him and threw them at Hermione. "You've met me already," he said as he sat against the wall opposite Hermione's. "You just didn't realize because you're a naïve little girl. You are reckless and stupid for coming to his quarters, you know."

Hermione watched as the man pushed himself away from the wall. He started pacing the room, his head hands pressed together underneath his chin. "I don't trust you," Hermione spat. The man turned and raised an eyebrow. That was when Hermione first saw a glimpse of him.

In semi-darkness, shadows played across his face, light distorting his features. But the moment his eyes flicked in her general direction, she saw something that captured her attention. A scar runs down his face, just like Bill's and Lupin's. He was really old. Folds of wrinkles marked the skin around the scar. He had sharp cheekbones and sparse hair. He was, as she had expected, tall and thin. "You don't have to trust me," he said. "I could push you back out there and leave you to your fate. You don't have to stay here with me. Feel free to leave as you wish."

Hermione glared at him. What did the man want? Was he an accomplice of Voldemort? Did he write the message on the wall? With whose blood? Was the message meant for her or for someone else?

She wanted to ask the man so much but instead she busied herself with attending to her injuries. The man made no attempt of trying to help her. Filthy mudblood. The words ricocheted inside her head. Of course, he was a pureblood, one of the older lines of wizards that despised muggles.

"You say you don't trust me and yet here you are. You've made no attempt to reach for your dagger and kill me. You don't even try to escape. You really are a pathetic little mublood," the man said in disgust.

"I'm not stupid. I couldn't possibly fight and survive with injuries like these to hold me back. I still don't trust you but then again when was the last time I actually trusted anyone?" Hermione heard the venom in her voice and raised her chin.

"The wolf. You trusted that old mutt didn't you?" The mention of Elder brought Hermione's full attention. She hadn't thought of Elder the moment she started chasing the man. Hermione began to worry. The wolf may have been just another forest animal, but she owed him so much. He was her only company, her only friend. And now he's gone.

"You killed him," Hermione accused. "You killed him and you're going to do the same to me. You are a low-down, evil psychopath and I have no respect for you at all."

The old man smiled at her, shaking his head. "Such heavy accusations from a girl with such intellect." His tone was suddenly grave. "I did not kill him. I have no interest in such mundane deaths. Someone else out there is out to get you. He must have taken the wolf to scare you off. I don't know. But let me tell you this: whatever you think of me, I'm not the enemy here. I don't care for your death ride; I am simply here for the show. Sooner or later, they will attack again. And they will be merciless."

Hermione furrowed her brows. "Who's 'they'?"

The man leaned back and closed his eyes. His skin was pallid, his lips cracked. He looked dead. The old man stayed like that for a while, and Hermione thought he must have fallen asleep. Hermione shifted uncomfortably. "The first Death Eaters, the old bloods."

Hermione felt a prick of panic surge across her body, every nerve ending coming alive. The old bloods were never mentioned in textbooks. Hermione read about them during one of her rare daredevil trips to the restricted section of the library. They were a circle of purebloods that were believed to be the first wizards. They had disappeared from genealogy long ago, when a new string of wizards arose. They were the ancient practitioners of Dark Magic, the most notorious killers.

"What do you think they wanted with Grindelwald," Hermione asked.

"It's not a question of what they wanted with him, but whether it is him that he wanted."

"What do you mean?"

The old man looked at Hermione. "How much do you know yourself, Ms. Granger?"

Hermione shook her head. The old man was crazy. He had been saying things that couldn't possibly be true. "The old world is in search of their heir, the last living counter descendant."

"And you think it's me? You are raving mad."

The old man lied down, pressing a hand to his side. "You've questioned everything else around you and yet you've never questioned yourself. How interesting!"

Hermione was desperate for a change of topic. She felt sick at the thought of belonging to an old line of wizards. "Who are you," she asked.

The old man's eyes began to droop and his limbs began to relax. But at the last moment of consciousness, the old man managed to mutter something underneath his breath.

"Call me Eldest."

(More A/N):

beege- It's at its early stages and I tend to leave out a lot of things so as not to provide spoilers or something but thank you for trying to understand and keep updated

Cutterpillow- Thank you. I will be putting more and more cliffhangers as the new characters arise so hopefully not too many will be irked.

pawsrule- ...and they're slowly being answered. Sorry it took me a while to update.

Bloodfire87- he's actually kind of like that character that I both hate and love and cherish; he plays a huge role that's for sure.

kidderz90- Oh my god, thank you. That was reassuring. I'm not gonna answer that, but yes, there's a relevance to the conflicts in their respective realities. (and man, I do need to work on the plot layout; it's becoming too mysterious and vexing)

anon- umm. well, young!Dumbledore right? I don't know how to respond to this, but I won't judge you.