Harry didn't wait for dawn. The decision of a man who has been floating in limbo for five years and suddenly comes crashing down is final. The rage that had woken him up was a map. His destination was London , because if grief was a promise, there was no place in the wizarding world more saturated with broken promises than the city that had once been the heart of light.
He gathered his few belongings. His wand, hidden in a false bottom of the Hogwarts trunk, remained. It was too risky. The Ministry, now a satellite of Voldemort's power, tracked every unauthorized use of magic, every illicit Apparition . He needed to be a ghost, not a target.
The journey was silent torture. Riding the Muggle train reminded him of his first trip to Hogwarts, but this time there was no anticipation, only the cold weight of failure. Every newspaper he saw spoke of shortages, of paranoia, of the new "Safety and Order Acts" that had begun to merge Muggle and Wizarding control. Voldemort was blurring the line between the two worlds, not to unite, but to subjugate.
The Uncertain Shelter
Their first target was the one place Dumbledore had hinted at as a point of contact if the Order fell: the Bookshop of Forgotten Secrets , a camouflaged redoubt in a cul-de-sac in the Covent Garden district.
Upon arrival, the difference between the London I remembered and this new version was devastating. The streets were clean, too clean, and people walked with a tense stiffness, without meeting each other's gaze.
A Dementor patrolled the square, the shadowy shape now as common as a police box.
No one looked at him. The Muggle world had learned to ignore its own terror.
The bookstore was a dusty facade, flanked by a Muggle florist and a dry cleaner. The faded sign read: Antiquarian and Rare Books. Enter at your own risk .
Harry hesitated for a second, touching his scar. This wasn't the kind of place a "Jim" dared to enter. He pushed open the door.
The interior was a labyrinth of shelves rising to an invisible ceiling. It smelled of old paper, mildew, and a hint of chimney smoke. The silence was total, broken only by the creaking of the wood under his boots. The light was dim, forcing him to walk close to the shelves.
Behind a carved counter, so old it looked like part of the floor, stood a man reading by the light of an oil lamp. He was short, stocky, with a gray beard and crooked glasses that barely concealed eyes that had seen too much.
Harry recognized him. It wasn't Percy Weasley, but it was someone in his circle: Elijah Thorne , a former employee of the Department of Mysteries who had disappeared after the fall of the Ministry.
"I'm looking for something… about a promise," Harry said, his voice a low rasp from disuse.
Elias didn't look up from his book. His voice was harsh and slow. "Promises are the cheapest currency on the market, kid. We have thousands."
"One Dumbledore made," Harry insisted, walking over and placing his hands on the counter. The tension in his body was palpable.
Elias finally looked up, and his eyes locked on Harry's. There was a split second of recognition, a flash of terror, and then a wall of resentment. Elias saw the scar, the long hair, and the shadow of a failed hero.
"Potter," Elijah hissed, his hand trembling slightly under the counter. "I thought you were dead. It would have been cleaner."
The blow was stronger than any spell. Harry forced himself to ignore the sting of guilt. "I need the Mirror of Eridanos. Dumbledore left a note."
"Of course he did! He left notes for everyone, promises that everything would be okay! And where are we now, Potter? Huh? My wife's under the Imperius Curse at the Ministry, and you're here playing treasure hunt!" Elijah banged on the counter, but immediately calmed himself, scanning the corners. Terror was an instinct now.
"Give me the note," Elias demanded, holding out his hand.
Harry pulled out the crumpled parchment. Elijah read it. His eyes moved over the phrase: "where pain is a promise."
"The Mirror... is a legend. An object that is supposed to reverse the time of a personal failure, not a global one. A dangerous illusion," Elias explained, his voice returning to a professional whisper. "But I know where the clue to its location might lie. A place where pain is certainly a promise."
Elias leaned forward, pointing at a crumpled map in his own book. "It's not in the world of the living. It's in the Outer Circle of the Library of Death , a hidden section of Godric's Hollow graveyard. It's a place where the oldest wizards sealed their worst regrets in stone. Dumbledore knew that only pain would take you there."
Tensions Rise
"Godric's Hollow..." The mention of that name was another knife in Harry's heart. It was there he had lost his parents, and there he had first encountered Voldemort. The place of his birth and his first and most crucial failure.
"It's guarded. Constant Ministry surveillance, Potter. The 'remnants of the old Order' sometimes come back crying. It's an obvious trap," Elias warned. "But if you go... you must go underground. There are magical service tunnels, abandoned by the last war. They run directly under Godric's Hollow. You'll need this."
Elias pulled something out from under the counter: a small Muggle lantern wrapped in oil paper. Unwrapping it, Harry noticed that the top was made of dragon bone.
"It's not a wand. It won't emit a trail. But it will give you light and allow you to hear whispers through the tunnel walls," Elias explained. "You have to go alone. If they find you, you don't know me. Understood."
Harry took the lantern. The contact with the dragon bone was a stab of connection to the magical world he had repressed. It was a tool, not a weapon.
"Why are you helping me?" Harry asked, looking at the old man suspiciously.
Elias shrugged, his expression hardening. "I'm not helping you. I'm helping my wife. If you're going to fail again, at least make this failure loud. Go. Now."
Harry nodded. There was no affection, no hope, just a cold transaction of survival. He turned and walked out the door, back into the gloomy London night.
Outside, under the oppressive sky, Harry felt the rage that had driven him solidify into cold determination . It wasn't just about shame anymore; it was about the responsibility he'd tried to bury. Godric's Hollow. The place where it all began, and the place where maybe, just maybe, he could find the tool to end it.